Pink
by emmlyj
Summary: Ballet!Lock. John has been recently expelled from the dancing world due to injury when he meets Sherlock Holmes, a man who may just be able to bring him back into it. I don't own any of these character or some of the dialogue. Belongs to BBC.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Hello! A bit of Balletlock here. I've revised it and fixed some things._

_Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and some of the dialogue belongs to Moffat, taken from the episode "A Study in Pink"._

_John was backstage again._

_He recognized Seb, the stage carpenter, at the fly lines in standby, muscles taught, ready to jump up and grab the rope in order to get the curtain out in a timely matter. The director had the technician rehearse the motion for twenty minutes during dress rehearsal until it was happening at a speed which could and might break necks. Other dancers, faceless for the most part, milled about stretching or bouncing up and down on their toes._

_There. There was the cue in the music. Seb wasn't listening for that, he was on headset. He got the cue from the Stage Manager "Fly 1, go" and the curtain shot up from the deck._

_This was it. This was John's moment. He inhaled sharply and moved his neck side to side, preparing. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, right foot extended and waited... waited... there. He took off like a canon at the chord and he was flying across the stage. One, two, three._

_His target was a chain link fence. Not a real one of course, a prop. A set piece, really. Big, and built to support the weight of a dancer. John never liked dancing with big props. Too much could go wrong._

_A foot away John leaps and the music has paused now, a chord hanging wrong and unfinished. John realizes midflight that – wait – no, something isn't right. He hits the fence in a practice motion and keeps going. He is too light he is too light why isn't he stopping? Then a sound, what is that? Crashing, and the feeling of wrong keeps going. John is lying on the stage floor. Why is he lying on the stage floor? He must get up he must get up where is the music? He can't figure out where he should be in the choreography without music. Where is the music where is the –_

John woke, finally. He was breathing heavily, trying to calm the pace of his heart.

A dream. Just the dream, again. John released a small sob and collapsed back into his pillows, gripping them in his fists.

_A nightmare_

No, not a nightmare. Not exactly because for a few moments he is happier than he has been in months.

He was dancing again.

Sleep returned, as it always does. John was thankful that falling asleep came naturally to him. Staying asleep could be a bit tricky, but falling asleep, that he could do anywhere. Years of training had taught him that. In the dance community – which he is no longer a part of, John reminded himself - he was known for falling asleep everywhere. Under the tables in dressing rooms, sitting on the rails between fly lines backstage, or once, memorably, stretched out between a barre and the covered mirrors while waiting for his turn during an exam.

Later, John forced himself awake. He had homework. From his therapist. John snorted at the thought. Him. A therapist. He wouldn't go but Harry was insisting. He could hardly afford this bedsit in London on his dancer's pension and stubbornness prevented him from accepting help from his family. The only reason he accepted the therapy sessions was that maybe... just maybe, they could help. And one day he could be back on his feet. John knew he would never dance again, never wanted to dance again, but hobbling around on a cane was too much after a lifetime of barely touching the ground. So Harry covered the part of the therapy sessions not covered by NHS and John quietly accepted, telling himself it was for the best. It made up for the time he had rescued his sibling from various drunken escapades and bad decisions.

John sat at the edge of his bed and eyed the cane hatefully. He didn't need it to make it the metre from his bed to the desk where it rested. His leg twinged uncomfortably, a steady reminder that he will never relive last night's dream. John took a deep breath and stood. So different, so so different John wasn't sure he would ever get used to the difference. He couldn't dance so he couldn't walk. As a boy he often chirped "why walk when you can dance?" Now he found himself thinking "why walk if you can't dance?" The two were mutually inclusive in his mind.

After preparing a mug full of tea and grabbing an apple from his meager grocery supply – he really must find a job – John sat down in front of his laptop. He stared at the blog.

There were a few half hearted attempts at entries. He was passed the point of attempting to maintain some sort of cheerful demeanor for those reading the therapy mandated blog. His therapist, Ella, told him he needed to work through his problems and communicate with his loved ones and she seemed convinced a blog would help John say things he couldn't out loud. "Just start with keeping an account of your activities, random thoughts, it doesn't matter. You just have to start. The rest will come. It will help you adjust to life away from the Company."

John scrolled through the comments on yesterday's post. Bill Murray, not the film star, but the dancer who took over his spot in the ballet after his injury, had commented again. John was happy for him. Taking over his role had landed him a spot in a London contemporary company which was just starting to take off. Hearing about it over beers had been too much and John had awkwardly given his congratulations before frantically changing the subject. John was sure that would be touched upon during his therapy session later.

Deciding not to comment further on his status as a Casanova – a fair statement, John privately thought, although it came from being in an industry deprived of men who were interested in woman rather than any personality trait he possessed – John closed his laptop with a snap.

_Nothing ever happens to me._

John went to his appointment with his therapist. Well, of course he did. What else is there for an unemployed aging ex-dancer to do mid-week? They go through the motions; John flexed his jaw and refused to talk about anything and Ella stared at him with just the right mix of neutrality and caring before making a note on her pad: _"Trust issues"._

Well, of course he has trust issues. Trust is one of the most important things dancers rely on. His was violated brutally in one career ending mistake.

"Fucking props" John muttered to himself as he stalked down a path in Russell Square Park. He tried to stay active despite his leg and the walks in the park make him feel a bit like he might still be a participant in this world. He is so wrapped up in self pity that he didn't notice his name is being called.

"John? John!"

He did a double take. A balding man approached, beaming.

"Mike. Mike Stamford! We went to the Royal Academy of Ballet together."

The name finally rung a bell after John stared for half a beat too long.

"Yes of course, Mike. Hello. Hi." John attempted a smile that came out more as a grimace.

Mike smiled ruefully "Yeah, I know. I got fat."

John did his best to hide the fact that he was trying to connect the man in front of him with the fit dancer he had known as a student. "No..."

"I heard you were in Russia working on that turn out, what happened?" Mike was still grinning.

John sighed. "I got turned out. Injury. Aging. You know the drill."

"Ahh" Mike glanced down at the cane gripped in John's fist. "Fancy a coffee?"

They got coffees at a nearby cart and sat at a bench lining the old path. John cleared his throat.

"Are you still dancing, then?"

Mike barked out a laugh "Gods, no. Teaching. At the Royal Academy. Bright young things, like we used to be. God I hate them." He laughed and John managed a chuckle. "What about you, then? Just staying in town until you get sorted?"

John shook his head "I can't afford London on a dancer's pension."

"Couldn't Harry help?"

John grimaced. "Like that's going to happen. Harry's doing enough already." John looked away and sipped his coffee. The tremor was coming back. He clenched his fist to ward it off.

"Ah. I dunno, why not get a flatshare?"

"Who would want me for a flat mate?" John scoffed, and raised an eyebrow when Mike chuckled. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: I should mention that I know nothing about the Royal Academy of Dance. I am hesitant to even try to be realistic about it so look at it as a completely AU version of real life. Don't worry; I won't be focusing too much on the back story here anyways so it shouldn't interfere. Also, Sherlock and John and actually__everyone__would be quite a bit younger here than they are in the BBC version, as a dancer's career happens before the age of thirty for the most part._

_Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters in this fanfic. They belong either to Conan-Doyle or Moffat or Gatiss or whomever else at the BBC. Also I am using some dialogue from the Episode "A Study in Pink" written by Steven Moffat. Obviously._

_Thanks for reading thanks for staying. We're in this together it's as much as a journey for me as it is you. Thanks for the reviews, also._

Mike led John through the familiar halls of the Royal Academy of Dance. They passed large windows where students of all ages were going through exercises at the barre. He stared ahead, determined to ignore those doing what he could not, but his other senses betrayed him.

He could hear piano music drifting through a door left ajar at the end of the hall. A bright piece, accompanied by the soft thump of many feet performing, if the shouting teacher was any indication, "PAS DE CHAT, PAS DE CHAT, PAS DE CHAT, CHANGEMENT!"

As he limped passed the open door, he allowed himself a quick glance inside. John inhaled the scent of sweat and leotards. He hadn't been in a dance studio or theatre since the accident. He had begged the members of his company to have his going away party at a pub in Moscow rather than at the studio and he stubbornly refused to go and pick up his things from the theatre himself. A teacher in heeled dance shoes paced at the head of the class while a dozen eight year olds in black leotards leapt back and forth along a taped line. He suppressed a grin, remembering his own hatred of changements royale at that age and continued down the corridor after Mike.

John found himself dodging a pair of teenage girls running down the hall in toe shoes, giggling. He shook himself. That was one thing he definitely did not miss. The giggling. It got better as he got older but as a teen male dancer he got rather a lot of attention from girls such as these. Heck, he got attention from the boys, too, who could be just as bad as girls for giggling, but rarely managed to be quite so high pitched. Now, however, these girls didn't spare him a glance. He looked down at his feet and frowned. Why would they? Nothing about his stance said dancer. For all they knew he could be a dance dad. He shuddered involuntarily. No, surely not. A man just entering his late twenties couldn't be mistaken for a father. He wasn't old, exactly, just leaving his prime dancing years behind him.

Mike cleared his throat. He had turned left at the end of the corridor and John had to rush to catch up, subconsciously straightening his spine and softening his shoulders. Mike grinned and ducked through a set of double doors, holding one open for John.

John followed and found himself in a brightly lit costume shop. Sewing machines and sergers were set up in stations next to fabric covered tables. Judys in various states of dress, _looks like Romeo and Juliette,_John thought approvingly, were littered throughout the room.

"Hasn't changed much since my day" John noted.

"You've no idea" Mike chuckled.

The lone occupant of the room looked up from where he was hand sewing dark ribbons on to a pair of toe shoes.

"Ah. Mike, can I borrow your phone? No signal on mine." His voice carried beautifully across the room as he turned his attention back to the shoes.

"What's wrong with the landline?" Mike inquired.

"I prefer to text" the man muttered absently. His long fingers deftly tied off the end of the thread. Mike patted his trouser pockets.

"Sorry, it's in my coat."

"Here. Use mine." John fished his phone out of his back pocket.

"Oh. Thank you." The man stood and moved swiftly and gracefully over to John, accepting the phone after giving him one piercing look and then turning back towards his work, typing quickly.

Despite evidence that he worked for the wardrobe department the man had fluidity to his movement that indicated otherwise. He certainly held himself like a trained dancer, John noted, trying to squash the feeling of envy. He turned out naturally at the hip while standing and held his posture while texting. He was well muscled and quite slim. There was also something that hinted at a posh background in the quality of his clothing and his speech.

"Sidorov or Tattar?" The stranger interrupted John's musings, still not looking up from the borrowed mobile.

"S... Sorry?" John asked.

"Which was it? Sidorov or Tattar?" John flexed his jaw and glared at Mike, who raised his hands in innocence but couldn't see to help a small smug smile.

"Sidorov. Sorry, how did you -?" John was interrupted again by a young woman appearing at his elbow, carrying a mug of coffee.

"Ah, Molly, thank you." The man strode over to the girl, tossing John his phone as he went and accepted the mug. He studied her as he took a sip and grimaced. "What happened to the lipstick?"

Molly smiled awkwardly and glanced a John and Mike before replying. "Oh, ahh, it just wasn't working for me."

"Really?" The man sounded surprised. "I thought it was a huge improvement. Your mouth is too small now."

"Oh." Molly said, deflating a bit as he turned away, "Okay." She was dressed in a worn apron and looked to be halfway through dying something red going by the still-wet stains splattered across the garment. Johns suspicions were confirmed when she ducked through a side door into a vented room.

"How do you feel about the violin?" The strange man had returned to his station and was gathering up pins and chalk pens, stuffing them into a small sewing kit. John stared at him, and it wasn't until Mike nudged his elbow that he realized the question was directed at him.

"I'm sorry. What?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't talk for days on end." He was coiling extra ribbon back on to a spool, eyes not leaving John. "Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." With this he threw in horribly fake smile. John stared at him blankly and then turned to Mike.

"You already told him about me?" He asked dubiously. John wasn't sure when Mike might have done this as they came straight to the Academy from the park.

"Not a word" Mike confirmed John's fears.

"Who said anything about flatmates?" He asked the man who was now tucking the finished shoes into a velvet lined box.

"I did" He said as if it should be obvious. "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend, clearly just home from performing for the Sidorov Company in Moscow. Wasn't that difficult a leap."

John griped his cane and shifted his weight subconsciously. "How _did_ you know about Sidorov?"

The man ignored him in favour of shrugging on a coat.. "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it." He wrapped a scarf tightly around his long neck and glanced over at John "We'll meet there tomorrow evening; seven o'clock." Sherlock pulled a mobile out of his coat and frowned at the screen before subtly slipping the box with the shoes into one of his many deep pockets. "Sorry – got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in studio C."

John stared at him as he strode back towards them and the doors. "Is that it? We've only just met and we're going to go look at a flat?"

The man paused next to him. "Problem?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

John shook his head in disbelief and glanced at Mike, hoping he would step in, but his old friend only continued to grin smugly.

"We don't know a thing about each other! I don't know where we're meeting... I don't even know your name."

The man stepped towards John and eyed him carefully before speaking.

"I know you're recently retired from Sidorov, out on injury I suspect although aging was certainly a factor. I know you've got a brother who is worried about you but you but you aren't keen for his help, because you don't approve of him – possibly because he's an alcoholic; more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic – quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

John shifted again, restlessly. Dozens of questions bounced around his head but he ignored them to simply stare at the man, refusing to let too much confusion show. He must be mad, John decided. Completely mad. The man seemed to read this realization on his face and he simply smirked and turned towards the door, stopping halfway through to turn back and fix John with his piercing gaze once more.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is two two one B Baker Street." He winked at John and nodded at Mike, wishing him a good afternoon. Mike waved a few fingers in farewell as Sherlock disappeared from the room, allowing the door to slam shut behind him. John rounded on Mike, who simply patted his arm sympathetically.

"Yeah. He's always like that."

Somehow John made it back to his bedsit. He felt a bit like he had been hit by a train.

He sat on the edge of his bed and pulled his mobile out, thinking he might text Mike to confirm that the whole afternoon hadn't been a dream. This thought was interrupted when he noticed a new text in his outbox. Apparently Sherlock hadn't deleted whatever message he had been so keen to get out.

_If prop house has green ladder, rent it._

_SH_

A green ladder? What production could he be working on? John wondered, puzzled. He ran through the ballets that he was familiar with. Nothing was ringing a bell. It was probably some new work. Interesting. Was Sherlock a choreographer? A costumer? A dancer?

John shook his head. It was definitely worth looking into. He decided he would to go Baker Street and see the flat. While he was at it, perhaps it was time for him to think about getting a teaching job. Not at to Royal Academy, no. Perhaps somewhere smaller and quieter. He had had enough excitement in the professional world of ballet to last him a lifetime, but the armature world? John inhaled, hoping to catch any scent of the studio that may have clung to him on his journey home, before sighing sadly. He missed it. He was going to go back.

John limped over to his desk, cracked open his laptop, and began drumming his fingers on the keys. When in doubt, ask the internet. He opened Google and typed in the name.

Sherlock Holmes

The internet was shared in the building and he had a sneaking suspicion his neighbour was streaming something off Netflix. Probably the odd one with the erotically co-dependent brothers and the angels and demons. Eventually the search loaded and John clicked on the first link; "The Science of Dance."

He frowned. The opening page was fairly bare, the description only reading:

I'm Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting dancer.

I'm not going to go into detail about how I do what I do because chances are you wouldn't understand. If you've got a production that you want me to fix, then contact me. Interesting works only please.

This is what I do:

1. I observe everything.

2. From what I observe, I deduce everything.

3. When I've eliminated the ungraceful, whatever remains, no matter how mad it might seem, must be art.

If you need assistance, contact me and we'll discuss its potential.

John frowned. Consulting dancer? That was an odd title. It sounded as though he would provide production advice but he didn't seem to have any professional status. He scrolled down the list of "Production Files" on the side bar and his eyebrows shot into his hairline. The productions listed were shows from around Europe. Definitely professional for the most part, with some amateur mixed in.

He clicked over to the forum. There were a few notes between Sherlock and what looked to be an anonymous stalker and a deranged fan. Also a G Lestrade. The name was vaguely familiar. It seemed Lestrade was desperate for Sherlock's help on an upcoming production but there were no details listed. What kind of help? John wondered again.

John spent a few more minutes skimming through some of the production notes but it was actually quite dull and nothing was explained thoroughly. There was a write up about the Green Ladder. John bookmarked it to read later. The dry nature of Sherlock's writing style had made him realize an afternoon nap might be in order.

After quickly updating his blog detailing his afternoon John fell back onto his bed.

Perhaps he would dream of dancing.

_A/N: Again, thanks for reading. Most of my experience (okay all of it) is in Theatre theatre. I have a degree in technical production and I have worked a few dance shows but other than that my experience with dance is doing it until the age of 13 and watching Centre Stage over and over again. My apologies to any sticklers out there. If something is bugging you and you want me to change it let me know Oh and yes, the dance companies are completely made up._


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Y O. Thanks for reading. Here we are, more of meeting and stuff.

_Edited to add: I definitely had police in here a few times. How did that even happen? Shoutout to Purplepacker for pointing it out to me. I did many a facepalm._

Again, I own nothing etc. Etc.

John arrived the next evening at Baker Street at seven o'clock on the nose. He limped self consciously down the street, counting the numbers until he reached the correct flat. After taking a moment to steel himself, he knocked.

A cab pulled up behind him and the mad man, _Sherlock,_ John quietly reminded himself, jumped out.

"Hello" he greeted John with a nod then paid and thanked the cab driver.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes." John extended his hand automatically.

"Sherlock, Please" His grip was sure, long fingers wrapping absurdly around John's stubbier palm.

"Well" John cleared his throat "This is a prime spot. Must be expensive"

"Oh, Mrs Hudson, the landlady, she's giving me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back her husband was up for a spot choreographing a new Ballet in New York." Sherlock quirked a smile at the memory. John frowned.

"Sorry, you got her husband a job at the New York Ballet?"

"Oh no, I prevented it." Sherlock's smile expanded and John sensed a peculiar likeness to the Cheshire cat. Before he could ask for clarification the door opened revealing a beaming woman.

"Sherlock, hello" she smiled widely at the man and he swiftly gripped her in a tight hug before making a big show of presenting her to John.

"Mrs. Hudson, John Watson."

"Hello" Mrs. Hudson patted John on the arm and ushered them inside "Come in"

John thanked her and followed Sherlock through to door. Inside there was a set of stairs opposite the front entrance and to the right John could see a door marked 221 A. Sherlock seemed to know where he was going and bounded up the stairs, pausing at the top and looking at John expectantly. He sighed and began to hobble up the stairs, Mrs. Hudson trailing behind. When he reached the top Sherlock smirked and opened the door with a flourish.

The inside was warm and inviting. It looked as though someone had been living there quite a while, and quite messily. Books were strewn across the room and a table by the window was covered in paper. John went in a little further and peered into the kitchen. Here, too was clutter. Ballet shoes and sequins covered the kitchen table which looked ready to buckle under the weight of an ancient sewing machine. John turned back to Sherlock who was looking at him expectantly.

"Well, this could be very nice. Very nice indeed."

"My thoughts precisely" Sherlock said, looking quite pleased.

"So you went straight ahead and moved in?" John asked, just as Sherlock confirmed the same.

"Oh" Sherlock said, surprised. "You could tell. Yes. Of course, haven't had the chance to tidy up..." the younger man began to half heartedly shuffle some of the books into piles. Theory books, for the most part, on various kinds of dance. There were also large binders that could only be show bibles, filled with photos and choreography logs. John wandered to an overstuffed armchair and, after fluffing up a pillow, sat down, extending his bad leg in front of him.

Something on the other end of the room caught his eye. "That's a barre" he said, pointing his cane at it. It gleamed in the evening light. It was well polished and bolted firmly to the wall.

"Yes," said Sherlock, "gift from a... well... I won't say 'friend'..."

"What do you think, then, Mr. Watson?" Mrs. Hudson had followed them into the room. "There's another bedroom upstairs if you'll be _needing_ two bedrooms..."

John smiled, used to the innuendos. "Yes, thank you. We'll be needing two." He cautioned a glance at Sherlock, suddenly worried, but he appeared oblivious to the suggestion that they might be more than potential flatmates.

"Oh don't worry; there are all sorts around here. Mrs Turner next door's got married ones." She smiled at him, slyly, before moving in to the kitchen. John chose to ignore this. "Oh, Sherlock. The mess you've made!" Mrs Hudson exclaimed upon seeing the state of the kitchen. She began sweeping the sequins in to piles.

John took this opportunity to study his roommate. _Potential roommate,_John corrected himself. No use getting ahead of oneself. The man had abandoned his large coat and given up on tidying. He was standing at the barre, shoes kicked off and lying in the middle of the room. His feet moved into the first position and his arms followed automatically. He executed a demi plie, looking a bit silly in his trousers, and began to move through the positions. John scrutinized his technique. It was quite good; he obviously had professional training. Clearly he was well practiced, since he had a barre at home. John itched to get up and join the exercises but stopped himself, tapping his bad leg with his cane as a gentle reminder to his brain that he did not dance anymore.

"I looked you up on the internet last night" John said casually. Sherlock looked round at him.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock asked, lifting his leg behind him in an arabesque.

"Found your website. The Science of Dance."

Sherlock paused, leg now lifted in front, _en attitude,_ and smiled proudly. "What did you think?"

John couldn't help the skeptical look that crossed his face. Sherlock looked a bit hurt and let his leg drop.

"You said you could find the flaw in any production, in any dancer. You also said you could identify a set designer by his tie and a wardrobe assistant by his left thumb"

Sherlock bristled. "Yes. And I can read your dance career in your face and your leg, and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?" John challenged, not unkindly.

Sherlock merely smiled and executed a turn, beginning the exercises facing the other way, towards the window.

"What about this new Ballet, Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson was watching Sherlock from the kitchen, eyes following his pointed toes as they moved through smooth tendus. "The one based off the music of Elton John? Sounds like it might be in trouble. That's right up your alley, is it not? Rumours are it might only get three stars. That's low, for a Scotland Yard production, isn't it?"

Sherlock paused his exercises and peered out the window. "Two. Two stars."

"Two? Surely not..." Mrs. Hudson sounded dismayed. She was interrupted by a knock on the door. She hurried down the stairs to answer it and returned a few seconds later with a fit man sporting a pained look on his face. Sherlock didn't look round from his exercises.

"Who was it this time?"

"Cassandra. She came up special from her holiday in Paris. Barely spoke to me after watching the rehearsal."

"What's so upsetting about this? Cassandra runs a small online review blog, doesn't see too much traffic." Sherlock said dismissively.

"Exactly. If I'm not impressing the bloggers, how can I expect to impress the big reviewers?"

Sherlock executed a careful turn to face his guest, who fidgeted a bit, then asked; "will you come?"

Sherlock hummed pensively. "Who is stage managing?"

The older man braced himself. "It's Anderson"

Sherlock scoffed and dropped his port de bras to put his hands on his hips. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant. Sherlock, please. Will you come?"

Sherlock sighed. "Not in your car. I'll be right behind."

"Thank you." The man looked relieved, and glanced at John and Mrs. Hudson briefly before turning and dashing down the stairs as quickly has he had come.

Sherlock crept to the window and watched as the man got back into his car and left. The moment he was out of sight he let out a small whoop and executed three fouettes en tournant. John started; a bit surprised he managed not to hit his foot on any of the furniture.

"Brilliant! Yes! The threat of two stars and he is desperate. Oh it's Christmas." He dashed to where he had discarded his coat and jammed his feet into his shoes.

_"_Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food."

She tutted at him. "I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" Sherlock grabbed a notepad and a few bobby pins from the kitchen table and quickly disappeared from view.

John slumped further in to his chair, depressed. Mrs. Hudson was talking to him, something about the sitting down type. It had been difficult to watch Sherlock move through exercises nonchalantly, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. As though John was the unnatural one, sitting on a chair in a living room rather than practicing a warm up routine. The way Sherlock had moved through the motions almost without thinking. John gripped his hands into fists and tried to pay attention to Mrs. Hudson just in time to process her saying "... you rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" John shouted involuntarily and immediately felt badly. "Sorry, I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing..." He checked himself, tapping his leg with his cane again.

Mrs. Hudson only looked at him with sympathy. "I understand, dear. I've got a hip. Cup of tea?"

"That would be lovely, thank you" John exhaled, still trying to calm himself down.

"Just this once, dear. I'm not your housekeeper" Mrs. Hudson said fondly, and hurried down the stairs.

John picked up the day's newspaper and flipped to the entertainment section. There was a list of upcoming shows and he browsed the list for whatever production Sherlock had dashed off to help with.

"You're a dancer. In fact, you were a lead."

John looked round. Sherlock had apparently returned, or never left in the first place, and he was leaning at the opening to the flat.

"Was." John replied shortly.

"Any good?" Sherlock asked, casually.

John sighed and stood to face him. "Very. Good."

"You've seen a lot of productions then. Good and bad."

"Mmm, yes" John said, unsure where Sherlock might be going.

"A lot of bad, I bet."

"Of course, yes. Enough for a lifetime. Far too much." John quirks a smile. But still, even bad ballet was ballet...

"Want to see some more?" Sherlock asked, studying his cuticles.

John stared. He found his mouth answering before his brain had fully caught up.

"Oh _God_, yes."

Sherlock smiled broadly at him and turned from the room, coat billowing out behind him. John found his legs following his new flatmate.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson, I'll skip the tea" John called down the corridor at the bottom of the stairs.

Mrs. Hudson poked her head through the door of her flat "Both of you?"

Sherlock spun around and rushed over to her, gripping her shoulders.

"An opening night in jeopardy? A less than five star performance? There is no point in sitting at home when there is something fun going on!" He kissed her on the cheek and rushed back towards the front door. John found himself grinning with the madman. Mrs. Hudson blushed at the attention but looked pleased.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent."

"Who cares about decent, Mrs. Hudson?! The show must go on!" Sherlock cried as he bounded from the house, John following in his wake.

Sherlock was apparently the type with the uncanny ability to summon a Taxi out of nowhere. The taller man climbed in first, sliding over to make room for John, who missed the destination that he gave to the driver.

"Right. You have questions" Sherlock stated, staring straight ahead.

"Yeah, where are we going?" John peered through the window. He wasn't so familiar with London that he could keep track of what street they were on as they flew through traffic.

"Theatre. Next?" Sherlock sounded bored.

"Okay, Who are you? What do you do?"

Sherlock fidgeted. "What do you think?"

John hesitated a bit, thinking about it. "I'd say a free-lance dancer..."

"But?" Sherlock's mouth twisted into a smirk.

"...but Scotland Yard doesn't hire free-lancers. That was Greg Lestrade earlier, wasn't it? Director of the company?" John had finally placed the man and the name. "They pull directly from their company for all productions. They might hire a guest director or designer but it is very rare..."

"I'm a consulting dancer" Sherlock said triumphantly. "Only one in the world. I invented the job."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that when productions are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"Professional dance companies don't consult amateurs" John pointed out.

Sherlock studied him. "When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said, 'Sidorov or Tattar?' You looked surprised."

John frowned at the memory. "Yes, how did you know?"

"I didn't know, I saw. The brand of your clothing is unavailable in the UK so you've been abroad. No tan to speak of, but your face is wind weathered, so probably somewhere cold, colder than England. Russia, probably, judging by the texts on your phone. Your conversation as you entered the room said trained at RAD, so, dancer, obvious. The way you carry yourself, you are very present in the room. Used to being the focus of a stage, so, not only a dancer, and danseur. Your limp is very bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Career ending, even. Only two dance companies in Russia have recently held auditions to replace a male lead so, Sidorov or Tattar. Obvious."

John blinked. That was... interesting. Such observations meant a very good understanding of how the politics of Ballet – the uglier side of the graceful art form – worked. And those auditions were a well guarded secret outside of Russia.

"You said I had a therapist." John asked, cautiously.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp – of _course_ you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother."

John looked at him blankly.

"Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player, but you're looking for a flatshare – you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then." John pulled out his mobile and stared at it. Sherlock took it from him and pointed out a small detail. "Scratches. Not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already."

John nodded "The engraving"

Harry Watson  
From Clara  
xxx

" Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. _Could_ be a cousin, but you're a ballet star who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara. Who's Clara? Three kisses say it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left him, he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left her. He gave the phone to you that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help. That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking" John asked. Sherlock smiled.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection: tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in to charge but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, and you never see a drunk's without them." Sherlock handed John back his phone. "There you go, you see – you were right."

John could only stare, dumbstruck. He couldn't help but be impressed.

"I was right? Right about what?"

Sherlock's mouth twisted into a grimace. "Professional dance companies don't consult amateurs." He turned to the window, staring out and drumming his hands on the door handle. He seemed to have come back to himself after having receded far back into his mind somewhere. John realized he was nervously awaiting his assessment of the deductions.

John took a deep breath. "That... was amazing."

Sherlock started. He stared a John, surprised. "Do you think so?"

John was puzzled. "Of course it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."

Sherlock smiled ruefully. "That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off" Sherlock grinned widely at this, and John mirrored the look. Both men then turned to look out the window to watch the streets of London fly by.

A/N: WOOO WE MADE IT THROUGH ANOTHER CHAPTER! I would like to point out that, oh, pretty much all of the dialogue here was written by Moffat. This is a lazy way of fic writing but It'll pretty much be impossible to maintain. Stick with me if you like.

Also another thanks to all those who are reading, and who have followed or reviewed.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Oh dear. I'm afraid I got a bit theatre-y here. There are lots of terms that you may not recognize so I've included a bit of a glossary at the end. I'll try to get less carried away in the future, but hey! You might learn something this chapter, if you care to! : )_

The cab stopped. Sherlock paid the driver before John could fumble for his wallet. They had been dropped off outside of a large theatre. Rounded steps led to an intricately carved set of doors.

Sherlock matched John's pace as they walked towards the building. "Did I get anything wrong?"

John hummed. Sherlock's deductions in the cab had been brilliant, but he had missed one tiny detail. He was pleased that the younger man had missed something.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce; and Harry is a drinker" John confirmed. Sherlock looked impressed with himself.

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything."

"And," John added, "Harry is short for Harriet."

Sherlock stopped dead. "Harry is your sister."

John reached the doors and held one open for Sherlock.

"Sister!" Sherlock repeated furiously.

"What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John inquired.

"There's always something" Sherlock muttered to himself, ignoring John. He swept past him into the darkly lit lobby.

"Hello, freak" a woman with dark hair pulled tightly into a bun sat on the floor, stretching. She wore loose sweatpants and an unzipped jumper which showed a leotard underneath. A few other dancers glanced up when they entered, either stretching or breaking in toe shoes.

"I'm here to see Lestrade"

"Why" the ballerina asked peevishly.

"I was invited"

"Why?!" She sounded outraged.

"I think he wants me to take a look" Sherlock grinned wolfishly. The ballerina stood abruptly.

"Well you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always, Sally" Sherlock strode passed her and down a corridor towards a nondescript doorway. She followed, walking turned out with her hands on her hips. "I even know you didn't make it home last night." John followed cautiously, unsure if he would be allowed to follow his new flatmate backstage.

Sally paled. "I don't... you can't..." She then noticed John following them. "Who is this?"

Sherlock paused by a key card reader, clearly waiting for Sally to let him in. "Colleague of mine, John Watson. John, Sally Donovan. Old... friend." The last part was said sarcastically.

"A colleague? How did you get a colleague?" She looked at John suspiciously. "Did he follow you home?"

John took a step back, noting the hostility between the two. Drama was common in the industry but he had been uncannily good at avoiding it during his career and he wasn't about to get involved now as an outsider. He was finished working with egos and difficult personalities. "Would I be better if I just waited here and..."

"No" Sherlock cut him off.

The doors to backstage opened and a man dressed in blacks poked his head through.

"Ah, Anderson" Sherlock greeted him "here we are."

"We're due to start dress tech in ten. The crew if finishing the pre-set, DON'T get in the way. Are we clear on that?" Anderson's voice was nasal enough to sound whiny and the tension between the two men was palpable. Sherlock inhaled deeply as he shouldered his way past Anderson, indicating that John should follow. He did, ignoring the glare he got from the Stage Manager. Sally slipped backstage after them.

"Perfectly clear, Anderson. And is your wife away for long?" Sherlock asked airily, striding down the corridor.

"Oh don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you" Anderson spat the words out, detest evident.

"Your deodorant told me that" Sherlock agreed.

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men." Sherlock pointed out.

"Of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!"

"So is Sally Donovan."

Anderson stopped dead and turned bright red. Sally froze, horrified. "Look, whatever you're trying to imply..." he sputtered.

Sherlock spun around abruptly and paced back towards Anderson, sniffing obviously.

"Oh my, I think it's just vaporised. I wasn't implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat." He smiled pleasantly before spinning on his heel and taking off down the corridor. John hurried to follow.

"And she must have scrubbed your floors as well, judging by the state of her knees!" Sherlock called over his shoulder before disappearing around a corner. Sally had stopped next to Anderson. They exchanged an awkward look of terror with each other before Sally turned away and ran back out to the lobby. Anderson cursed and ducked through a door marked 'stage manager's office'. John shook his head. Drama. He followed Sherlock around the bend.

The next corridor showed no sign of Sherlock. Technicians in black bustled in and out of doorways pushing racks of costumes and cable boxes. John cautiously moved down the hall, waiting to be called out for being somewhere he shouldn't be, but he was ignored. Through a door on his left he heard Sherlock's unmistakable drawl so he ducked through the opening, dodging a man stacking stage weights.

"Who's this?" John waited for his eyes to adjust to the dark backstage. Sherlock and Greg Lestrade were standing by quick change booth, the latter staring at John with a slight frown. Sherlock glanced over.

"He's with me" he said by way of explanation

"But who is he?" Lestrade demanded.

"I said he is with me" Sherlock repeated with a glare. "Now, where are we?" He asked before Lestrade could ask again.

"About to start a run through. You can sit behind us at front of house."

Sherlock nodded for John to follow him and headed down the strip of carpet that ran along the fly rail. A set of germans masked the wings, preventing John from peering on stage before they exited through a sound lock into the house.

The house was big, John had to admit. There were two balcony levels and the seats were luxuriously draped in red velvet. Sherlock leapt up the rows and collapsed into a seat behind the front of house set up.

Anderson wandered in, giving Sherlock a glare. He sat at the desks and began giving rapid instructions into a headset. John took the seat next to Sherlock and turned to him expectantly. Sherlock ignored him. He shrugged and settled and listened as the orchestra warmed up, waiting for the run to begin.

A few minutes passed. Lestrade took his seat beside Anderson. When about a dozen people were scattered around the audience, designers, producers, and various crew not needed during the run, Lestrade stood.

"Can I get the company on deck, please?" His voice projected through the house, and Anderson quickly echoed him into his headset, paging backstage.

Dancers poured on to stage, most in some bits of costume. About fifty people were gathered on stage within a minute. Lestrade cleared his throat and Anderson yelled "Quiet on stage please!" resulting in immediate silence.

"Alright. I want all of you giving at least 90% tonight. This is one of our last times to run this before we open but I don't want you injuring yourselves in a bout of enthusiasm. Focus on the basics. I want to see good shoulders and good feet out there." Lestrade hesitated for a moment. "Oh, and Sherlock Holmes is here tonight, so expect notes to run a bit later than usual."

This received an immediate reaction on stage. Some of the dancers grinned, others looked a bit nervous. One of the younger dancers actually clapped her palm to her forehead and appeared to groan.

"Alright, head out. Merde." Lestrade dismissed his company with a wave of his hand. Anderson scrambled to his feet.

"Five minutes to curtain! Five minutes!" Anderson shouted, a bit frantic to be heard over the suddenly chatty dancers. John noticed that his com was turned out and winced for the poor technicians who had probably just had their ears blown out by Anderson shouting into the mic. He watched, amused, as Anderson realized his mistake and hastily gave an apology. John wondered how many cases of beer the error would cost him.

Sherlock sat up in his chair, posture as immaculate as ever. His hands were steepled under his chin and his eyes were narrowed, studying the stage. The curtain dropped in slowly and the orchestra began to play the overture.

Overall, John had definitely seen a lot worse productions. He had also seen many better. The dancers were very technically adept. The orchestra was fantastic, too. The music, inspired by Elton John's work, lent itself towards a more contemporary style of ballet. John relaxed and enjoyed himself.

Before he knew it, it was over. John blinked at the house lights and applauded lightly with the rest of the crew. Sherlock had barely moved but his eyes had narrowed even further. Lestrade seemed to brace himself before turning around.

"Shut up" Sherlock said absently. Lestrade blinked, startled.

"I didn't say anything!" He sputtered.

"You were thinking. It's annoying" Sherlock shot back. He stood up and walked towards the stage, stepping onto the wall of the orchestra pit at the edge of the audience, then on to the deck. A few of the dancers had returned to mill about the stage and they watched him carefully.

John followed, making his way along the orchestra pit until he hit a section of the stage that connected to the house floor, then carefully hoisted himself up. He balanced his cane carefully and managed to get to his feet with more grace that he dared to hope for.

Sherlock was pacing from stage left to stage right. He seemed to be running through the choreography in his head. He snapped his fingers at one of the dancers.

"Show me the steps you did immediately before the other group began their _jetes_" he ordered her. Nervously, she executed a few _grande battements_ finishing with a pirouette. Sherlock shook his head, mimicked the movements, but added a set of _deboules_. He then nodded and stalked into one of the wings, studying a shin buster. John wandered after him to see what the problem might be.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked tentatively.

"Not much" Sherlock said, standing whipping out his notebook and making a mark.

John studied the shin busters off stage. They were meant to give side light to the dancers in a way that added dimension in order to see the movement more clearly. The focus was dead on but he had noticed that the edge of the light was visible from the far side of the audience.

Anderson shifted restlessly. "The shin busters were off focus a bit I think. Might want to..."

"Yes, Anderson, thank you for your input" Sherlock said sarcastically and pulled in one of the wings so that it was better hiding the offending light from the audience. It also had the benefit of removing Anderson from sight. John suppressed a chuckle at the muffled sound of outrage the stage manager emitted.

"You'll have to re-spike that leg" John mentioned helpfully when Anderson managed to untangle himself. He earned himself a glare.

Sherlock continued to fuss with the masking.

"So, was there a lot of light leakage? Do we need to adjust the germans?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course not. There was minimal light leakage, just a flare from one of the lekos. Should be fixed with a top hat." Sherlock paced back to the middle of the stage and walked through a few more steps from the ballet thoughtfully, then looked up at the lights, shielding his eyes from the glare and snorted.

"So far, so obvious."

"Sorry," John said, puzzled, "obvious?"

"Not enough light here. We'll have to refocus the tips. John, do you have much experience as a light walker?" Sherlock asked.

Lestrade stirred. "We have a whole team on standby for the night. Our lighting designer and head of LX are just outside having a smoke..."

"They won't work with me" Sherlock protested immediately.

"I'm breaking every union rule letting you in here already" Lestrade reminded him.

"Yes," Sherlock gave him a piercing look "because you need me."

Lestrade's jaw worked carefully and then he finally exhaled. "Yes I do. God help me. Anderson, clear the room for a few minutes."

"But I have tech notes..." Anderson began to protest.

"Now" Lestrade snapped. The dancers quickly shuffled off backstage. One technician remained to push a lift in to place and do the actual focusing.

Sherlock called for the technician – Thom, he supplied, - to head up on the lift to adjust the light.

"John, if you would" Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

"Hm?" John didn't look up from where he had been studying a pair of discarded shoes. They were a male dancer's shoes, not made for going up on the toes. Soft and springy. John longed to abandon his loafers.

"John" Sherlock called again, then gave up and grabbed his elbow and dragged him to stand downstage left. Happy with where he had positioned John, he then jumped off the edge of the stage into the house and backed up until he could get a good view, calling out instructions to the technician. John sighed.

"Sherlock, what am I doing here? I'm not a light walker."

"You are helping me prove a point. Now take a big step upstage. There. Good" John followed the instructions but couldn't help pushing the subject.

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent. Are you sure that is the same gel colour as the others? It looks a bit off"

"Yeah, well, this is more fun. Surprise Pink?!" Sherlock said the last part dubiously. He had found the lighting plot and was looking it over with narrowed eyes. "Looks more like light lavender. Check that for me, will you Thom?" He called up to the technician. "Should be R51 not R52." John found himself of the receiving end of a piercing look. "Good analysis John, but I was hoping you would go deeper."

John looked around himself thoughtfully. Other than a few offending glares off the lighting instruments and the mixed up gel colour, the lighting was actually fine. The dancers were visible, after all, which was the most important part in dance shows. The changes were subtle as well, just enough to change the mood. But some of the choreography...

John went through some of the steps in his head. A few things were rushed, too many steps in too little time.

"It was... complicated. There were a few too many steps in some places. Took away from the story."

Sherlock studied John. "You know what this company's biggest weakness is. You've read it in the reviews..." Sherlock was interrupted by Lestrade striding back on to the stage.

"Sherlock, I've got to start letting people go. We can't afford the over time, give me what you've got."

Sherlock spun to face the man.

"What you have is a production lacking in passion. All your dancers are fairly adept with the choreography but they are spending too much time worrying about the steps. They need to focus on the story. What are they saying? What is the commentary here? Reviewers these days aren't looking for perfection. They are quite willing to forgive messiness if the passion is there."

"Sorry, messy?" Lestrade didn't look convinced. Perfecting technique had clearly been his focus.

"Yes, messy. You need messier. Throw in an _attitude_ every once in a while. Dare to flex a foot. Reviewers talk, balletomanes talk, and there has been a distinct lack of passion and originality in these productions lately..."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up ..."

Sherlock pulled out his phone and John could see he had pulled up a dance blog. It was the blog of someone with little dance experience but who had fallen in love with the art form and was a regular attendee of Ballet productions. John had read the article and agreed with it.

"This is your audience, right here. If these people become less willing to spend money on going to the ballet you will notice the difference in your income. You need to know your audience and please them. Technique matters in exams and of course everything needs to be precise but people like to see mistakes every once in a while, it makes it all the more real."

John couldn't help the look of admiration he was giving Sherlock. "That's brilliant" he agreed softly. Sherlock look round at him, startled at the comment.

"Sorry" John said hastily, blushing faintly.

"But the reviewers, Sherlock. They know technique, they are sticklers for it!" Lestrade spoke as though John hadn't.

"It's obvious, isn't it?" Sherlock snorted.

"Not to me" John admitted.

Sherlock looked between the other two men helplessly. "Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so boring." He turned gestured at the empty house.

"Theatre audiences are changing. They are aging and a new generation is taking over. This generation though, they have been raised with more stories and more education, and more of a feeling of a right to an opinion about things. This generation talks to each other at a rate we, as people approaching our thirties, can barely keep up with. We do keep up with it because we must, but the young generation is coming. They have money and they are picky about how they spend it. Therefore: story. Have you been on Tumblr? Twitter? If you can draw them in to what you are doing you will have fans who will follow you to the ends of the earth. If you bore them with technique, you'll have a Theatre that remains empty and no cash flow to speak of. Grants from the government will only get you so far."

"That's fantastic!" John exclaimed. Here, this was the kind of talk that could get him interested in the ballet again. Perhaps, no, he could no longer do ballet, but this sounded exciting. He wanted to be a part of it.

Sherlock pulled John aside a bit. "Do you know you do that out loud?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Sorry. I'll shut up" John promised sheepishly.

"No! It's... fine." It was true that Sherlock didn't look annoyed, only surprised at the support. He turned back to Lestrade.

"Go on then. Cut a few steps from the choreography and have a long discussion with your company about what kind of story you are trying to tell. Oh and in the meantime get a proper twitter account and start posting photos showing off backstage. Not enough to give away the mystery, mind, just enough to make people feel involved."

"Sorry, twitter?" Lestrade looked confused.

"Yes! Twitter! Dear god man, you have children, don't you? Ask them. Now, who is your web designer? I want to make sure it's someone who can capture a younger audience. Fast, easy, NOT geocities. Don't worry about the blue hairs, they will hear the news at the park as always."

"Geocities..." Lestrade only looked more lost.

"Oh! We need to get you a YouTube channel. We really must get a move on. John, figure out what is trending right now and see if we can apply it to the production. Elton John is well known enough that we should be able to attract some attention, make something go viral." Suddenly his eyes widened and his face light up. "Oh. Oh!" Sherlock pulled out his mobile and began texting frantically.

John started towards him, a bit concerned. "Sherlock?"

The younger man clapped his hands in delight. "Viral. Yes! We should be able to make it go viral! We could film a small accident, a mistake!" Sherlock took off across the stage. "Talk to the ensemble, Lestrade! Make sure your leads are completely committed to their characters!"

"Of course, yeah – but what's this about a mistake?!"

Sherlock had disappeared from view but back tracked until he could be seen through the wings.

"Viral!" He yelled, disappeared from view once more.

Lestrade stood centre stage looking baffled. Anderson was gathering his remaining technicians for a few tech notes and trying to page backstage again, giving the company five more minutes to get out of costume before the director would speak with them.

John felt suddenly very out of place. He subtly backed off stage and headed for the sound lock that would take him out the way Sherlock had gone. Back in the corridor he looked around helplessly, unsure where his flatmate had disappeared to.

"He's gone." John turned. The ballerina from earlier, Sally, was leaning next to a door to a dressing room.

"Who, Sherlock Holms?" John asked, stomach sinking.

"Yeah, he just took off. He does that." Out of costume, Sally seemed much smaller. She had let down her hair and it seemed desperate to return to its naturally curly state. He had admired her form in the ballet. She was clearly an up and coming principal in the company and had the air of someone desperately trying to maintain their position among talented people.

"Is he coming back?" John asked hopefully.

"Didn't look like it." He looked around the area. It wasn't the first time he had been stranded in a city, unsure of where he was or how to get home. "Sorry, where am I?"

Sally couldn't help a small chuckle. "Bricktown Theatre."

"Right. Er... Do you know where I could get a cab? It's just my... my leg..." John tapped the offending appendage with his cane.

"Try the main road. You can get out of here by going down the corridor to the left, it'll lead you to the lobby." Sally pointed helpfully.

"Right. Thanks." John turned carefully and headed in the direction she had pointed.

"But you're not his friend." Sally called after him. John turned back. "He doesn't have friends. So who are you?"

"I'm ... I'm nobody. I just met him." John replied honestly. Had it only been yesterday?

"Okay, bit of advice then: stay away from that guy."

John bristled. "Why?"

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. Fixing things. Or, he thinks he's fixing things. But one day this company is going to hit rock bottom, and he's going to be the one who put it there."

John frowned at this assessment. "Why would he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopathic know-it-all. And psychopaths get bored."

Lestrade poked his head out from backstage. "Donovan!" He called, looking annoyed. Sally waved him off.

"Coming." She backed away from John, towards her boss.

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes."

_A/N: A few random terms in here I should explain..._

_A quick change booth is exactly what it sounds like, a booth which is set up right back stage for quick costume changes that have to happen too fast for performers to get to their dressing room. _

_Ahhh germans. It this case I'm not talking about the nationality, sorry if that confused anyone. Germans in theatre are bits of drapery that run up and down stage rather than stage left and right. They are often installed backstage to prevent light leakage, which usually comes from the fly rail because technicians need to see spike marks and such especially if they are pulling flies from the ground level. Hope that makes sense to people. _

_Sound locks are usually installed at all entrances to back stage. Basically there are two sets of doors to get through. It also helps filter light. You can go through the first door and then close it before opening the second door out to backstage or the house or wherever. _

_Oh and the house = the audience. Front of house set up in this case refers to the desks, lights, and comms systems that are set up in the audience during tech week. It's a temporary set up which gets taken down before there is a proper audience. _

_Oh and speaking of Tech week, Tech Week = the week before opening where all of the technical aspects are added to the production. Tech dress usually happens before dress rehearsal, often with only partial costumes and they are allowed to stop and start as the crew requires. Probably not a lot of tech cues to do during the ballet that would require them to stop so they would likely just make it an extra opportunity to run the show._

_Like I said before things could be different in the UK (I'm in Canada) and things could be different in the dance world. Just going with my experiences. _

_Thanks for reading!_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: Woooooooo... This chapter is a bit late. The story wasn't cooperating like I had originally thought it was going to. I beat it into submission eventually. John helped. Bless him. _

_Disclaimer: Don't own the characters or most of the dialogue. Etc etc etc. _

John managed to find his way out of the theatre. He picked a likely looking direction and began walking. A few cabs passed by, but they ignored John's attempts to flag them down.

"Figures" John muttered to himself, zipping his jacket. Nothing had been the same since the accident. Time was he commanded the attention of thousands of people at a time. Now he couldn't get a taxi driver to spare him a glance.

A public telephone box was ahead. John remembered his mobile and thought that perhaps he could call a cab company to pick him up, if he knew where he was. It was starting to rain. He ducked inside the booth to give himself a minute to find his bearings. While he peered through the rain, the phone began to ring.

John stared at it. He had never heard a public phone ring before. This sort of thing might happen in spy movies, but never in real life. He felt compelled to answer it. Shrugging, what could it hurt; he picked it up and brought the receiver to his ear.

"Er... Hello?"

"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"

It was a man's voice, silky and assured on the other end. John brought the receiver away from his ear to frown at it, then replied: "Who is this? Who is speaking?"

"Do you see the camera, Mr. Watson?"

John peered through the rain. Sure enough, there was a CCTV camera on the wall of the building. Not an unusual sight in London.

"Yeah, I see it."

"Watch." The camera, which had been pointed towards the phone box, swiveled to point in the opposite direction.

"Now, there is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?"

John, still puzzled, glanced across the street. "Yes..." As he confirmed it the camera also swiveled away. John was beginning to feel nervous. As a man who felt he had nothing to hide the cameras had never really bothered him. After all, it wasn't him they were after. If nothing else they might provide useful if he was ever attacked. He found the idea of never being alone on the street comforting.

"And finally, at the top of the building on your right." John watched, dread sinking the pit of his stomach. This camera also moved away. John had the distinct feeling of being very, very, alone.

"How are you doing this?" He asked stiffly. A black car with tinted windows pulled up beside the phone box.

"Get into the car, Mr. Watson." The man on the other end of the phone spoke pleasantly, as though they discussed the weather. "I would make some sort of threat but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." The phone went dead. John hung up and squared his shoulders, stepping out of the booth and towards the kerb. A man dressed in a sharp suit stepped out of the car and opened the back door for John, not meeting his eye.

John considered his options. He could run. Probably. He was fairly certain he could make it a few quick steps into the range of a camera before... before what? Before the man in the suit could tackle him? He had never worried about kidnapping before. Not even when he was a star in Moscow. Here in London few people seemed to even recognize him, which was fine with John. London was home. Moscow was a foreign planet where all of his dreams came true.

He tapped his cane against his leg. Or, he could get into the car. Something told him that he wasn't in as much danger as the man on the phone might want him to believe. The truth was, he wasn't that scared. Annoyed, certainly, that someone expected they could pluck him away and he wouldn't protest.

Well, he wouldn't protest. He would go meet this man, figure out what he wanted, and give him a piece of his mind. Decision made, John stepped smartly to the kerb and sat down in the back before he could change his mind.

The interior of the car was luxurious. A woman sitting across from him barely looked up from typing on her mobile. She was quite pretty.

"Hello." John greeted her.

"Hi." The woman gave him a bright smile, then dropped it and turned back to her phone.

John cleared his throat. Not chatty. Oh well, he had chatted up reluctant donors to the ballet for most of his life.

"What's your name then?" Was she also being taken somewhere against her will? John doubted it. She looked too bored.

"Er... Anthea" she muttered, still not looking up.

"Is that your real name?" John asked on a hunch.

"No." She smiled slightly.

John nodded. He looked around, trying to gauge his surroundings. There wasn't much to see. He turned his attention back to the woman. "I'm John."

The woman studied him sympathetically. "Yes. I know."

"Any point in asking where I'm going?"

"None at all, John" she smiled at him again briefly and turned back to her phone.

John exhaled slowly. "Okay." His ego was a bit damaged. He was used to a more attention from females, but this was probably for the best. He had no idea what she might be involved with. Still, he thought, studying her out of the corner of his eye. He liked her aloofness.

John shifted into a more comfortable position. Anthea, or whatever her real name was, seemed content to ignore him. The car drove on for a quarter of an hour before pulling into a warehouse and coming to a stop. John wondered what to do. He received no instructions from the others in the car. Eventually, he decided to try to get out and see if they would stop him. He eased the door open. When this got no reaction he clambered out.

He was in a large warehouse. A ways away a man in a suit stood braced against an umbrella. A chair had been placed before him. He studied John, waiting. John steeled himself and marched towards him, keeping his steps graceful.

"Have a seat, John." The man said kindly.

"You know, I've got a phone." John still felt annoyed that the man had been stalking him. If he had the power to control the CCTVs he certainly could look up a mobile number. "I mean, very clever and all that, but, you could just phone me. On my phone." John reached his adversary and stopped, ignoring the chair.

"When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place" The man gestured to the warehouse. "The leg must be hurting you. Sit down."

"I don't want to sit down" John said stubbornly. He had worked with people like this. They had power and saw fit to abuse it. This only had the ability to bring out John's stubborn side. The man hid a look of mild surprise and studied John carefully.

"You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening" John shot back.

"Ah yes, the bravery of the performer" the man chuckled. "Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think?"

The man's face transformed into a stern mask. "Now. What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

John almost rolled his eyes. He should have known the way his evening was going that his new flatmate was to blame for this. "I don't have one. I barely know him. I met him yesterday."

"And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're critiquing major productions together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?" The man seemed to be getting annoyed. Good, John thought.

"Who are you?" John asked.

"An interested party."

"Interested in Sherlock? Why? I'm guessing you're not friends."

"You've met him. How many friends do you think he has? I am the closest thing to a friend that Sherlock Holmes is capable of having."

"And what's that?"

"An enemy."

"An enemy?" John echoed. This statement made him want to take a step back. What, a rival dancer? This man looked too old to be within his prime in dancing. Then again, John wasn't even sure that Sherlock worked primarily as a dancer. Maybe choreography? John shook his head.

"In his mind, certainly. If you were to ask him, he'd probably say his arch-enemy. He does love to be dramatic."

John didn't disagree with this assessment, although he thought of the run around the man standing before him had given him so far this evening. "Well thank God you're above all that."

The man frowned, looking caught out. John's phone beeped. He immediately dug into his pocket and pulled up the text.

Baker Street.  
Come at once if convenient.  
SH

"I hope I'm not distracting you" the man said peevishly.

"Not distracting me at all, actually" John causally slipped his phone back into his pocket without answering the text.

"Do you plan to continue your association with Sherlock Holmes?"

John still couldn't figure out the motivation behind this. Jealous ex lover?

"I could be wrong but I think that's none of your business."

The man stepped forward ominously. "It could be."

John refused to be intimidated. "It really couldn't."

The man glared at him for a few more moments, then sighed and pulled out a notepad.

"If you do move into two hundred and twenty one B Baker Street, I would be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." He closed the notebook with a snap and looked at John expectantly.

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

John flinched. "In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing that you would feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he is up to. "

"Why?

"I worry about him. Constantly." Something about this statement rang true.

"That's nice of you" John said patronizingly. If the man wasn't going to be straight with him, that was fine, but he couldn't force John to play his game.

"I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned. We have what you might call a ... difficult relationship."

John's phone went off again. He checked it compulsively.

If inconvenient,  
come anyway.  
SH

"Ahh... No." John said in reply to the man's offer.

"But I haven't mentioned a figure."

"Don't bother." John put his phone back into his pocket. He was hungry. They had missed dinner and it was approaching half nine. His patience was worn through.

"You're very loyal, very quickly."

"No, I'm not. I'm just not interested."

The man's eyes narrowed. He waited. John met his eyes steadily. The other man pulled out his notebook again.

"'Trust Issues' it says here."

A small shiver ran down John's spine. For the first time since getting in the car he felt a bit unnerved.

"What's that?"

The man didn't look up from his notes. "Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

John shifted his weight, considering. "Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily" the man countered.

John didn't reply, only gave the man a hard look. "Are we done?"

The man continued to study him. "You tell me."

John met his gaze for a few more moments, then turned away and strode towards the car.

"I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your right hand that isn't going to happen."

John stopped dead, suddenly furious. He spun back around.

"My what?"

The man smiled knowingly. "Show me." He nodded towards John's hand.

John flexed his jaw. The man might be used to having his orders obeyed, but John was no soldier conditioned to obey orders. He bent his arm at the elbow, hand facing out towards the man. If he was so desperate to see John's arm he was going to have to come over, John wasn't about to go rushing to him. The man seemed unperturbed at the act of defiance, only strode forwards and reached for the appendage.

"Don't" John snapped, tensely. The man only raised an eyebrow, waiting. On his own terms, John held his hand out, palm up.

"Remarkable." The man breathed.

"What is."

"Most people blunder around this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see art, beauty, and grace. You've seen it already, haven't you?"

"What's wrong with my hand?" John demanded.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your right hand. Your therapist thinks it's stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by your time as a danseur. She thinks the pressure to perform was too much and the tremor is induced by the thought of returning to that life in any way."

"Who the hell are you? How do you know that?" John fought to keep from raising his voice.

"Fire her." The man advised, ignoring the outburst. "She's got it the wrong way round. You're not haunted by the accident, you're enraged by it. You miss dancing more than anything. You are desperate to return to it, you just haven't figured out how to do that yet. The tremor is a withdrawal, not a sign of stress."

John's eyes flicked towards his hand and he gripped it into a fist. His face was set into hard lines as he continued to fight to control his anger.

"You aren't afraid of the liberal arts community. You miss it."

John had heard enough. He turned and strode back towards the car that he hoped might take him home.

"Welcome back." The man whispered, just loud enough for John to still hear.

John reached the car and wrenched the door open, throwing himself into the back seat. Not-Anthea hadn't moved. She glanced at him.

"I'm to take you home" she commented mildly.

John's mobile went off. He fished it out of his pocket.

There Could be dancing.  
SH

John put the phone away and studied his leg thoughtfully.

" Address?" Not-Anthea asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Baker Street." John said distractedly, still gathering his thoughts. "Two two one B Baker Street. But I need to make a stop first."

A few minutes later they were outside of his bedsit. John hurried inside, leaning his cane against the door and quickly shuffling through his unpacked boxes until he found what he was looking for.

It was an address book. John used it to list contact numbers during his career. He moved around enough that having the addresses just in a phone was not practical. This way he had a physical record of anyone he might need to get hold of. Despite thinking he wouldn't need it again; John was compelled to hold on to it. You never know when a contact number might come in handy.

John returned to the car after stuffing the book into his coat pocket. He slid into the back seat and the driver pulled away smoothly. John fidgeted.

"Listen, your boss – any chance you could not tell him this is where I went?"

"...Sure" his companion said casually.

"You've told him already, haven't you?" John asked, resigned.

"Yeah." She grinned at him.

John gave a small smile back. "Er... Listen... do you ever get any free time?"

She chucked but had turned back to her mobile. "Oh yeah, lots" she said sarcastically.

John waited expectantly. They had already arrived at Baker Street. Not Anthea finally looked at him and then glanced obviously at the door to his new flat.

"Bye."

John deflated a bit. "Okay."

Back in the flat he found Sherlock stretching. His legs were out in front of him and he had his arms curled around his heels. After a few moments he inhaled sharply and sat up, then spread his legs in a near split. John noticed some patches on his arms.

"What are those?"

Sherlock glanced over to see where John was pointing.

"Nicotine patch. Helps me think." Sherlock then bent over his left leg, arms held above him. "Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

"Good news for breathing" John pointed out.

"Oh breathing. Breathing's boring" John chose not to mention that breathing was an integral part of the exercises. He decided that, to Sherlock, that wasn't the point. He looked closer at Sherlock's arms.

"Is that three patches?" He asked, aghast.

Sherlock straightened and then folded over the other way. "It's a three patch problem."

Sherlock held the pose, then pushed himself forward into a truer split.

John waited patiently for an explanation to why he had been summoned. None came.

"Well?" John asked, tapping his cane against his leg. "You asked me to come. I'm assuming it's important."

Sherlock looked momentarily confused, then realization dawned. "Ah, yes. Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?"

"Don't want to use mine. Always a chance the number will be recognized. It's on the website."

"Mrs. Hudson has a phone" John reminded him.

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear."

John was annoyed. There had definitely been more excitement this evening than he had been prepared for. "I _was_ the other side of London."

"There was no hurry" Sherlock assured him mildly, coming out of the split and lying back, gazing serenely at the ceiling.

"Here" John pulled his mobile out and held it towards the man. Sherlock didn't open his eyes, just held out his hand. John glared and slapped the phone into his hand with a bit more force than was strictly necessary.

"So, what's it about – this idea of yours to attract an audience?"

"We need something to go viral."

"Go viral?" John repeated. "You can't just make something go viral. It isn't exactly predictable."

"Yes, obviously. We'll have to get the word out somehow. Lestrade barely has an online presence. Big mistake." Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "We'll have to risk it." He held John's phone out, indicating he should take it back.

"I want you to send a text."

John flexed his jaw, annoyance mounting.

"You brought me here... to text?"

Sherlock was oblivious to the mounting tension "A text, yes. The number is on the table." Sherlock waited for John to comply. "What's wrong?"

"Just met a friend of yours." John said tightly

"A friend?" Sherlock sounded confused.

"An enemy." John allowed.

"Oh" Sherlock relaxed; this seemed to make more sense. "Which one?"

"Your arch-enemy, according to him." John paced. "Do people have arch-enemies?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes"

"Did you take it?"

"No"

"Pity. We could have split the fee. Think it through next time" Sherlock chided him.

"Who is he?" John asked.

Sherlock stilled. "The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now. On the table, the number."

John limped over to the table and cast around for the correct slip of paper. He found it and frowned at the name scribbled next to the digits. "Hang on... this is Cassandra Seighfried's number. Isn't she the blogger Lestrade mentioned earlier?"

"Yes, that's not important. Just enter the number."

John shook his head and punched the numbers in obediently.

"Are you doing it?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"Yes"

"Have you done it?"

"Ye – Hang on!" John muttered back.

"These words exactly. 'What was the show at Brickstown really like? I know your blog post mustn't have been truthful. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come to discuss."

John complied automatically. "What do you mean? Her review wasn't truthful?"

"Type it and send it. Quickly."

Sherlock leapt to his feet and threw himself into the desk chair in front of his laptop. He began typing maniacally.

"Have you sent it?"

"What's the address?" John had never gotten the hang of the new style of keyboards on mobile phones. He still missed T9word. Sherlock repeated himself impatiently and John sent the text. Sherlock was navigating a newspaper site. John peered over his shoulder at what he was reading.

"That's... that's a preview for the Scotland Yard show. A bit harsh, isn't it?"

"Yes, obviously." Sherlock began typing in a comment agreeing with the assessment.

John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock looked at him and sighed.

"Oh, perhaps I should mention. I'm not trying to run this show into the ground."

"I never said you were."

"Why not? Given the fact that I have nothing to gain from their success and you are witnessing as I fuel the fire of a rumor that the show is a flop it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're trying to destroy the company?"

"Now and then, yes." Sherlock smirked.

"Okay." John said cautiously. "How did you get at this preview? It's not due to be released until tomorrow morning. We've seen the show, we know it is unusually harsh, but how do you know that they don't just have a grudge against the company? It isn't uncommon."

Sherlock stood, running his hands through his hair. He paced for a moment before dropping heavily into his armchair. John limped over to sit in an overstuffed counterpart across from him.

"The reviewers are being bribed. They must be. Nothing in their reviews was legitimate. True, the production needed a bit of polishing, but that level of scorn?" Sherlock shook his head "Somebody is paying them to be nasty. Someone wants to steal the audience. Probably a rival company, but they wouldn't be able to associate themselves with the bad mouthing. That kind of thing isn't looked kindly upon."

"But how do you know? Sherlock, bad reviews happen. It's just part of everything. Just because it's more than one reviewer doing it doesn't mean they're being bribed."

"Well it has to be bribery, obviously."

"Right, why didn't I think of that?" John asked tersely.

"Because you're an idiot." John glared murderously. "No, no, no, don't look like that; practically everyone is." Sherlock assured him. He reached a long arm out and snagged his laptop from his desk. He then pulled up his browser and handed it to John, indicating he should scroll through the tabs.

"Now, look. Do you see the problem?"

John clicked through the blogs, skimming for the most part. There were seven different bloggers who had been invited to rehearsals. Each critiqued the show harshly and made predictions that it would be the show that ruined Scotland Yard.

"From these blogs? How could I? They are just people's opinions, Sherlock."

"But they all highlight a different problem! Look! Don't you see?"

"I fail to see your point."

Sherlock let out a noise of frustration and grabbed the computer from John's lap.

"My point is these reviews are inconsistent. Not only do they fail to address any of the actual problems or even agree on a single one, they are technically flawed. Look at this one. Sean Claymore for Dance London Online. He _never_ misspells a performers name and look! Nikolai Andropowicz? Don't you mean Nikolai Andropowich? That should be an H not a Z. Liz Michaels for Ballet Weekly criticizes the lighting. The _lighting, _John! She never touches lighting! Her estranged daughter is a lighting designer in the West End and sentiment prevents her from opening her eyes. Most obvious is this:" Sherlock pointed to a normal looking period at the end of a perfectly precise sentence_._ "That period has been italicized! The rest of the blog isn't italicized! Eric Thompson wouldn't leave something like that un-edited unless he was being rushed. The man is a perfectionist. These are all uncharacteristic blemishes on professional blogs. Something isn't right. Someone is threatening them."

John blinked. If Sherlock was right this could be a serious case of sabotage. John realized something.

"Er... who did I text?"

Sherlock grinned wolfishly. "A blogger. She'll likely panic and inform whomever was bribing her. She'll want to keep her nose clean. No, we aren't worried about her. We want to know who doing the blackmailing."

"You think they'll come to the meeting?" John asked dubiously.

"I think they would be desperate to know who had caught them out. If they can figure out a way to ruin that person's reputation, they won't hesitate to do it to save their own skin."

As if on cue, John's mobile rang. It wasn't the same number that he had texted. It was blocked.

"Get many calls from blocked numbers?" Sherlock asked.

"Nobody even has my new number. Except you, apparently. And Harry." John frowned at the screen. "Are you certain we shouldn't let Lestrade know? He might have an idea of who would target them."

"No time." Sherlock said excitedly. He stood and grabbed his coat. "There isn't time to explain it to him. We've got to get to that meeting."

"So why are you talking to me?" John asked.

"It helps to chat it out. Relax, you're doing fine. Well?"

"Well what?"

"Well," Sherlock said slowly, falsely patient. "You could just sit there and watch telly."

"What, you want me to come with you?"

"I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk out loud. Talking to myself attracts attention, so..." He frowned when John didn't move. "Problem?"

"Yeah. Sally Donovan."

Sherlock huffed in disgust. "What about her?"

"She said you get off on this. Showing off. Meddling in productions you aren't involved in."

"And I said 'dancing' and here you are." He quirked an eyebrow and turned and walked out the door.

John sat for a few moments, thoughtful, then levered himself out of his chair to follow Sherlock.

"Damn it." He was definitely letting himself get pulled back in to this crazy world.

_A/N: We made it! Thanks to all those who are reviewing and such. It means a lot. Even if you're just reading, that's awesome too. There wasn't much room for fun ballet stuff in this chapter but the next should be a bit better. _


	6. Chapter 6

_A/N: Welcome to chapter six. I got up at 5:30 to run this morning so my powers of editing might be a bit sleepy. Enjoy._

_Disclaimer: see previous chapters. _

John hurried downstairs after Sherlock and managed to catch up with him partway down the street.

"Where are we going?" Madly dashing out of the flat unaware of his destination was going to become a habit if John wasn't careful.

"Northumberland Street is a five-minute walk from here."

"Do you think whoever it is is stupid enough to go there for the meeting?"

"No, I think they are desperate enough. I love the desperate ones."

"Why?"

"Because they are addicted to the applause! To the spotlight. They can't stay away from it. That is the weakness of this industry John. Audience."

"Yeah." John agreed. It could be cut throat, ballet. Beyond individual success came group success. There was only room for so many at the top.

"This is the place to be, London. Right here in the heart of the city. People with money combine with people with talent and you can have an explosion of culture. Art is always struggling. Art must always struggle, for human suffering is one of the biggest drives." Sherlock held his hands on either side of his head as if to focus his thoughts. "But who would take the competition this far? Who could stoop so low?"

"I dunno, who?"

Sherlock shrugged and dropped his hands. "Haven't the faintest. Hungry?"

He ducked into a small Italian restaurant. A waiter nodded towards a reserved table at the front window.

"Thank you, Billy." Sherlock shrugged off his coat and sat, positioning himself so he could see out the window. John settled into the seat opposite him. Sherlock nodded out the window.

"Twenty – two Northumberland Street. Keep your eyes on it."

John shifted so he could see.

"They aren't just going to ring the doorbell though, are they? They'd need to be mad."

"They have actually gone through the trouble of bribing various reviewers. They must be mad. Mad, and well versed in blackmail and full of gossip."

A portly man bustled over to their table, beaming. "Sherlock!" He cried, shaking Sherlock's hand enthusiastically. "Anything on the menu, whatever you want, free. On the house! For you and for your date."

"Do you want to eat?" Sherlock asked John.

"I'm not his date" John told the man hastily.

"This man got me season tickets to the Scotland Yard Ballet! Great seats, after they had sold out!"

"This is Angelo" Sherlock introduced him. Angelo shook John's hand.

"A few years ago I convinced Lestrade this man was an important reviewer in Belarus, and that he would bring in tourists for him."

"He saved my life! My wife was ready to kill me I'd missed the presale!"

"The seats were on the second balcony. Not that good." Sherlock reminded him. "Anything happening opposite?"

"Nothing." Angelo assured him. "But for this man, I'd be dead or divorced. Or both."

"You did get a divorce." Sherlock added. Angelo waved him off.

"I'll get a candle for the table. It's more romantic."

"I'm not his date!" John protested, but Angelo had scurried away.

"You may as well eat, we might have a long wait."

Angelo returned with a small lit tea light, placing it on the table with a flourish and giving John thumbs up. John gave him a weak smile in return.

He checked the menu. John was still getting used to eating what he liked, whenever he liked. Sidorov had employed a nutritionist for his lead dancers who had been quite strict about what calories they put into their bodies. Dancers had to eat a lot because of all the calories they burned. They could be on their feet dancing for eight hours a day.

John ordered the baked tortellini when Angelo returned. Sherlock ordered nothing. John debated protesting, surely Sherlock needed to refuel after their busy evening, but restrained himself. He hated being lectured about eating or told he must be anorexic as a dancer. It was worse for women, the stereotype didn't extend so badly to men, but it was a universal touchy subject in the industry.

"So, do you dance?" John inquired, breaking the silence.

Sherlock snorted. "Obviously." His attention barely left the window.

"Ballet, then, primarily?" John asked

Sherlock sighed, resigning himself to the fact that he was going to have to have this conversation with John. "Ballet is my forte, yes. I have been trained in Jazz and tap as well, although I loathe tap dancing" he gave a small shudder. "I've made a study of dance around the world. I don't do companies anymore, now that I'm well known in the community. I'm often hunted as an understudy, and if I'm bored I'll step in. Is that enough information for you? Do I need to go on?" Sherlock looked mildly irritated.

" I was admiring your form, earlier. You're quite good. Not surprised you'd get called up as an understudy. That's actually quite impressive that you can step in like that without being part of a company. You must be quite good."

Sherlock looked pleased. "I've always thought as much."

John chuckled at his confidence. Sherlock might be arrogant, but John found he didn't mind. It was a nice change from the false modesty people often adopted.

John's food arrived and they lapsed into comfortable silence.

"People don't have arch-enemies" John mentioned casually as he speared his last tortellini onto his fork and raked it through the bed of cheese.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock tore his gaze away from the window again.

"In real life. There are no arch-enemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it?" Sherlock asked mildly, looking back out the window. "Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet?" This had been bothering John. He felt ready to tackle the subject now that his blood sugar was returning to normal.

" What do real people have, then in their real lives?" Sherlock dodged the question.

"Friends, people they know, people they like, people they don't like. Girlfriends, boyfriends."

"Yes, as I was saying. Dull."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?" John asked neutrally.

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area." Sherlock was distracted.

"Boyfriend, then?" John asked promptly. Sherlock shook his head.

"Some combination of the two?" John acknowledged the gender spectrum. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Which is fine, by the way," John added hastily.

"I know it's fine" Sherlock frowned at him.

"So... do you then?"

"No." Sherlock admitted.

John felt a bit awkward. He still had no idea what Sherlock's preferences might be. Not that it was any of his business, John reminded himself. Sherlock might just not have a preference.

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me." John desperately wished he hadn't brought it up. He feared it might have been insensitive to assume anything. "Fine. Good."

John forced himself to shut up and an awkward silence settled. John began scraping the cheese from the bottom of his dish to give himself something to focus on.

Sherlock fidgeted, clearly wanting to say something else. John prayed he would let it drop.

"Listen, John... um... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any..."

"No." John interrupted him. "No. I'm not asking... no." He met Sherlock's eye and hoped his sincerity was getting across. "I'm just saying, it's all fine. Sorry I brought it up."

Sherlock met his gaze for a few moments, considering, then looked relieved. "Good. Thank you." He turned his attention back to the window.

"Look across the street. Taxi." John twisted in his seat to see out the window. "Stopped. Nobody getting in and nobody getting out." Sherlock leaned forward in his seat, trying to see more clearly.

A man was in the back seat of the cab and appeared to be studying to building.

"Why a taxi? Oh, that's clever. Is it clever? Why is it clever?"

"That's him?" John asked dubiously. He squinted his eyes, thinking he might be able to recognize him if he was a rival of Scotland Yard.

"Don't stare." Sherlock ordered.

"You're staring." John shot back.

"We can't both stare." Sherlock leapt to his feet, grabbed his coat and scarf and dashed out of the restaurant. John rushed to follow him.

Sherlock was standing on the kerb, leaning forward with his weight on his toes. The man the back of the cab had turned around and seen him. The taxi pulled away from the building and Sherlock took off across the road without looking where he was going. A car slammed on his break in an attempt to avoid him. Sherlock rolled over the bonnet, not missing a beat, and landed smoothly on the other side , not even pausing. The driver honked angrily and John waved in apology as he ran by.

Sherlock had realized he wasn't going to catch the cab and slowed. John caught him up.

"I've got the cab number." John gasped, out of breath.

"Good for you." Sherlock seemed to be focusing very hard on something.

"Right turn, one way, road-works, traffic lights, bus lane, pedestrian crossing, left turn only traffic lights. There's a studio there." Sherlock took off again.

John wasn't exactly out of shape and he managed to keep up. Sherlock paid no mind to other pedestrians and John found himself calling out apologies when the other man brushed particularly violently passed people.

"Come on, John!" He cried, running up a fire escape. John scrambled to follow. Sherlock reached the roof and leapt to the next building. John hesitated. It was a big gap.

"Come, ON, John! We're losing him!" Sherlock shouted back. John took a deep breath and leapt, landing neatly. Sherlock had reached the other end of the roof and was quickly rushing down a ladder, skipping rungs.

They raced through alleyways. John couldn't spare a though for anything but keeping the taller man in his sights.

"Argh, no!" Sherlock cried angrily. Without breaking a stride he switched directions.

"This way!" He yelled at John who skidded off balance trying to follow the switch. The taxi barreled past them. John turned to follow it automatically.

"No, this way!" Sherlock shouted, ducking down a side street.

"Sorry." John managed to find his feet and took off after him.

They raced down the street and emerged just before the cab was about to pass them by. Sherlock ran into the street and it stopped for him, just barely.

"Wait, open up!" He cried. He tugged open the rear door and stared at the passenger, who looked back at him, mouth agape. Sherlock immediately straightened up and ran his hand through his hair in exasperation.

"No." He moaned. "Teeth, tan, what – Financial advisor from California?"

John had reached them and leaned against the door, breathing heavily.

"Santa Monica. Just arrived. You've never even been to a ballet, have you?"

"The luggage" Sherlock pointed to the tag, marked 'LAX to LHR' "and look at him. Doesn't seem the cultured sort, does he? It's probably your first trip to London, right, going by your final destination and the rout the cabbie was taking you?"

"Sorry, are you guys the police?" The passenger looked confused.

John stiffened. What they had just done wasn't strictly illegal but it might seem rather suspicious to an outside eye. Luckily, Sherlock seemed to have it under control.

"Department of tourism. We just wanted to offer you these comps to the reopening of Wicked on the West End. Interested?"

The man looked pleasantly surprised. "Yeah, sure." Sherlock handed him some tickets.

"Welcome to London." Sherlock turned and stalked away.

John smiled politely at the man. "Enjoy your stay." He closed the cab door and followed Sherlock down the street.

"So that was basically just a cab that happened to slow down." John said when he caught up to him. Sherlock was pacing along the kerb, glaring back at the cab.

"Basically."

"Not the person doing the black mailing."

"No." Sherlock confirmed, sounding exasperated.

"Wrong country, good alibi." John added.

"As they go." Sherlock agreed.

"Where did you get those comps?" John asked. "Gift from a client?"

"No, I pickpocket comps from Lestrade when he annoys me."

John nodded. He tried to stop the giggle that escaped him.

"What?" Sherlock asked.

"Nothing," John's giggle was turning into a laugh. "Just... Welcome to London!"

Sherlock chuckled. Down the street a police officer had stopped the cab. Probably to inquire why it had stopped in the middle of the road. The passenger had gotten out of the car and was pointing down the road at Sherlock and John.

"Got your breath back?" Sherlock asked, following John's gaze down the road.

"Ready when you are." John said cheerfully.

They took off quickly, slowing to a jog when they were out of sight.

"Where to now?" John asked between breaths.

"Let's stop at the Scotland Yard studios. I want to break in to Lestrade's office and see if he's been quarreling with any other company in particular." Sherlock replied. "It's not too far from here. This way." Sherlock ducked down an alley and John followed. Running after Sherlock was definitely becoming a habit.

They arrived at the studio, a bit breathless. Sherlock pulled a large ring of keys from his coat and selected the correct one while John watched to make sure the police hadn't followed them. It was a relief when the door opened and they fell through the foyer, collapsing side by side against the wall to catch their breath.

"That. Was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done." John gasped.

"And you worked for Sidorov." Sherlock pointed out.

This made John giggle again and after a moment Sherlock joined him.

"That wasn't just me. It was a good company to work for, really, even if he was a bit mad." John couldn't stop grinning. "Why didn't we go back to the restaurant."

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, Angelo can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?"

"Oh, just passing time." Sherlock looked at John sidelong. "And proving a point."

"What point?" John was clueless to what Sherlock might mean.

"You." Sherlock grinned and pulled out his mobile. I'll tell Mrs. Hudson you'll take the room upstairs then?"

"Says who?" John asked, still lost.

"Says the man at the door." Sherlock indicated the entrance which they had shut behind themselves hastily. Half a beat later someone rapped on the door.

"Get that, will you John?" Sherlock asked, turning away and heading down the hall.

John stared at him for a moment then went to answer. He opened the door and found Angelo on the other side.

"Sherlock texted me." He said, beaming. "Said you forgot this." He held up John's cane triumphantly.

John stared at it, shocked, immediately looking down to confirm that yes, he had just run through what felt like half of London on his 'bad leg.'

"Errr..." He turned and looked down the hall. Sherlock had stopped halfway down and was grinning at John.

"Thank you. Thanks." John said to Angelo, accepting the cane and closing the door.

John stared at Sherlock, still shocked. His leg wasn't hurting him. Sherlock stared back at him steadily.

John opened his mouth to – he wasn't sure. Thank Sherlock? Try to explain that the limp had been with him since the Doctors told him his injury was severe enough he could kiss his days as a professional dancer goodbye...?

He was interrupted by a familiar voice booming down the hallway.

"Sherlock, what is the meaning of this?" Lestrade strode down the hallway.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock demanded.

"In my studio? Rehearsing! What are you doing here? You can't just break in. You're supposed to be helping." He hissed. "How did you even get in?"

Sherlock ignored the question. "I am helping. I need into your office."

"If you're just looking for the safe needle exchange box it's been officially removed as we're no longer sharing a loo with the shelter next door." Lestrade retorted.

Sherlock froze and all the blood drained from his face.

"This guy, a junkie?! Have you met him?!" John scoffed. That was a low blow, implying Sherlock had a drug problem. He understood Lestrade might be annoyed with Sherlock but this... Sherlock was far too focused to be doing drugs. Look at all he had accomplished!

"John" Sherlock said quietly.

"I'm sure the police could search his flat all day and they wouldn't find anything you could call recreational"

"John, you probably want to shut up now." Sherlock met John's eyes seriously.

John was taken aback. "Yeah, but come on..." John trailed off at the look in Sherlock's eyes.

"No." John said disbelievingly.

"What?" Sherlock snapped.

" You?" John asked, frowning. He knew that the pressure could get to some but Sherlock just seemed so... clean. He had quit smoking recently, a habit many dancers maintained. His body was so well tuned that it seemed highly unlikely that it played host to any toxins. And besides... Sherlock was so confident and focused on things. Surely he didn't need to turn to drugs.

"Shut up." Sherlock said angrily. He turned back to Lestrade.

"I'm not your drill sergeant." Sherlock said to him, still a bit pink from the accusation. "What do you want me to be doing right now? You've got to whip your company into shape."

"No, Anderson is my drill sergeant." Lestrade agreed.

"What, Anders..." Sherlock was cut off as Anderson chose that moment to step out of the studio. He grimaced and gave them a small sarcastic wave.

"Anderson, what are you doing here?"

"Oh, I volunteered," he said sarcastically.

"They all did." Lestrade said with a glare. "They're not strictly speaking called right now but we had a late start and we're well within our union hours. I'm sure they're very keen."

Sally Donovan wandered out, decked out in point shoes and leg warmers.

"Are we really cutting the double pirouettes?"

"Yes, they're over done you could use to lose a few." Sherlock snapped.

"They're my signature move!" Sally said with a glare.

"Get back to it." Lestrade ordered them. "Anderson, have them walk through the changes a few more times. We'll run it again in ten." Anderson and Sally retreated, leaving Sherlock with a final glare.

"Now." Lestrade steeled himself. "Tell me what you are doing Sherlock. I'm not afraid of phoning the police, or your bro..."

"This is childish." Sherlock paced angrily.

"Well I'm dealing with a child." Lestrade snapped. "Sherlock, this is my show. I'm letting you in, but you do not get to go off on your own without letting me know what you are doing. Clear?"

"What are you doing here? Surely you weren't so concerned by my notes that you called an emergency over night rehearsal."

"Sherlock, I'm serious, if you don't tell me what is going on I really will have you in for a drugs test."

"I am clean!" Sherlock said, voice raising.

"Is your flat? All of it?"

"I don't even smoke." Sherlock scoffed, rolling up his shirtsleeves to show off his nicotine patch. John noted that Sherlock avoided answering whether he had anything stashed at their flat.

"So am I." Lestrade said, pleased, rolling up his own sleeves to compare patches. Sherlock rolled his eyes and re-buttoned his cuffs briskly.

"So, let's work together. You might have been right about the passion. I've spoken to the dancers and they seem to have taken it to heart. Already they are beginning to let loose. But Sherlock, something else is going on. I'm not stupid, you know. There must be another reason we're getting panned."

Anderson had snuck back into the hallway. "Never mind that. I've been looking at the comments. Do you think we wouldn't notice that you've been fueling the reviewers, Sherlock? You've posted cryptic comments on almost all of the places we're being criticized!" Anderson sneered. "You love it, don't you? Manipulating us into thinking you're helping. You're nothing but a psychopath."

Sherlock waved off Anderson's comments. "I'm not a psychopath; I'm a high functioning sociopath. Do your research." Sherlock turned back to Lestrade. "Listen, do you think you can convince Cassandra to come in? Discreetly? I want to ask her some questions."

"Sherlock... she's been discredited." Lestrade said quietly. John flinched. The gossip vine was brutal. For a reviewer to be discredited was quite serious. It happened from time to time... if someone gave extra credit to a production because of personal connections, or if they panned one show to support another.

"Excellent!" Sherlock said excitedly. John stared. For a critic to be discarded just as she was rising out of obscurity? It was almost tragic, as it always was when a bright young professional slipped up and ruined their career before getting the chance to even start.

"How, when, and why? Not because of this show, surely."

Lestrade shook his head. "No, no connection to us. Something about her being in a relationship with the ASM of the Study In company. Apparently he was writing opinions out for her."

"No..." Sherlock said thoughtfully. "That's not right. Why would he do that? Why would she let him? That isn't what is going on here. But why hasn't she fought it? Reviewers have pulled themselves out of worse gossip cesspools."

"Why wouldn't she try to fix everything the very night it all went wrong? I dunno, Sherlock, maybe she was distraught? Probably drunk. I know I would be devastated if I watched my career plummet in the space of a few hours. Yup – Sociopath. I'm seeing it now." Anderson nattered on while Sherlock brought his hands to either side of his face, focusing.

"She didn't though. Why, why? Why would she let her career be ruined without even one word in rebuttal?"

"You said someone was probably bribing them." John said tentatively. "Or, blackmail, right? Maybe whatever secret she wants to keep hidden is worse than an affair."

"Yeah, but if you're career was being destroyed. If you were watching everything you had worked for crumple and there was nothing you could do to stop it, what would you say?"

"Please, God, let me dance again." John replied steadily, meeting Sherlock's eyes.

"Oh, use your imagination." Sherlock through his head back in exasperation.

"I don't have to." John replied shortly. Sherlock froze and met his gaze, a flicker of regret skipping across his face.

"Yeah, but if you were clever, really really clever. Have you seen her blog? She is very clever." Sherlock began to pace the short hallway. Lestrade watched, arms folded over his chest. Anderson didn't even try to mask the look of disgust on his face.

"Someone must have done this. Someone must have decided she had become a liability. Possibly because we texted her. Who? Who could be so brutal without risking their own necks?"

"Did somebody order a taxi?" An older gentlemen with a drive ID around his neck had let himself in and was standing awkwardly at the entrance.

"Nobody ordered a taxi. Go away." Sherlock waved a hand at him absently.

"Who would have ordered a taxi?" Anderson asked, confused.

"Could be one of the ensemble. Perhaps you should go ask?" John replied, subtly trying to remove Anderson from Sherlock's presence.

"I haven't released anyone, they can't just leave without permission." Anderson was frantic.

"Shut up! Everybody, shut up!" Sherlock was shouting now. He seemed to be trying to latch on to a particularly stubborn train of thought. "Don't move don't speak, don't breathe! I'm trying to think! Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

"What? My face is?!" Anderson sputtered.

Lestrade raised his arms. "Everybody quiet and stand still, Anderson turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Anderson began.

"Your back NOW, please!" Lestrade turned with a glare, adopting a stance that was a favourite among directors. He acted as though there was no doubt his orders would be obeyed. Anderson complied.

"Come on, think. Quick!" Sherlock muttered to himself, massaging his temples.

"What about the taxi?" The man at the door asked idly.

"NOBODY ORDERED A CAB." Sherlock shouted at him. The man grinned and ducked out the front door.

"Oh!" Sherlock gasped. He stared after the man and the colour drained from his face. "Oh..." He repeated, softly.

"What is it?" Lestrade asked.

"Who would have nothing – and I mean nothing, to lose. Of course. Why didn't I see it before. Stupid. Obvious."

"Is it?" Anderson muttered.

"Don't you see?" Sherlock shot him a look of disbelief then looked at John. John stared back blankly.

"Oh, look at you lot. You're all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so relaxing." Sherlock shook his head. "We know whomever is threatening her isn't in the dance community at all. We've probably never met him! Or her. Women are just as capable of blackmail."

John nodded, following. "That makes sense. So we just need to figure out what all of these reviewers would have had in common. Who might have connected them."

"So we're right where we started then. We don't know who is responsible."

"Anderson, don't talk out loud. You lower the I.Q. of the whole street. We are much, much closer to where we were at the start. Especially now that you've cut the excessive double pirouettes." Sherlock grumbled.

"It still doesn't sound like you have much to go on, Sherlock." Lestrade sounded defeated. "We open in two days. If we don't get some of those reviewers to back off... well." He scratched his head. "All we can do is make the best show we possibly can." He stood pensively for a moment. Sherlock still looked like his mind was spinning and didn't bother to reply.

Lestrade took a deep breath and turned back to the rehearsal hall. "Alright guys, let's run it again from the top. Remember, good feet, passion! Jane, if you please, the overture." A recording of the overture began to play.

"Sherlock are you okay?" The man was, impossibly, even more pale then he had been before.

"What? Yeah, yeah... I'm... I'm fine."

He raked a hand through his hair. John studied him, worried.

"Go watch the rehearsal John. I want to take a walk. Need to think." Sherlock turned and bolted from the hallway out into the night. John followed automatically but paused, considering. Sherlock looked like he needed air. He shrugged and turned to slip into the rehearsal hall. Sherlock would be fine, and he was itching to see the improved ballet.

Anderson gave him a small glare when he slipped into the room and he held out a hand apologetically before closing the door gently behind him.

The story was just unfolding. It was a sex, drugs, rock-n-roll pop opera of a show, and they seemed to be finding their stride. Already the motivations that lead each step were more pronounced and deliberate.

Sally Donovan stood out in particular. She obviously took notes well, despite finding Sherlock to be irritating. She danced the role of a stern agent who slowly learned to leg her hair down.

It was spectacular. Now that the steps were within each dancer's ability to perform flawlessly they were able to give themselves over wholly to the characters. John found himself grinning stupidly. He glanced over and saw Lestrade taking notes with a small smile on his face, and Anderson seemed to be frantically making sure his choreography notes were up to date.

Sherlock had done some good here, John decided. Even if they couldn't save the production from being panned, they had at least ensured that the show was worthy of attention. Perhaps even Sir Elton himself, John mused. If they could get his approval it might mean the difference between taking the show and not. It wouldn't be unheard of for an artist to come to the opening of a show off which his music was based. He had certainly been invited by the company. John decided he would phone an old friend and see if he would put in a good word with Elton.

John sat back and tried to enjoy the rest of the run through. He couldn't stop the nagging suspicion that something wasn't quite right with Sherlock.

Then it hit him.

The look of realization on Sherlock's face before he had left. Sherlock had figured it out. He had probably decided to go confront the suspect himself. John quickly excused himself from the room and raced down the hall.

He hoped he wasn't too late to stop Sherlock from doing something stupid.

_A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review. I'm headed out on a cruise tomorrow morning and getting internet in the middle of the ocean might be tricky. I'll update when/if I can. Should be able to get a few chapters up at least! _


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Sorry this disappeared for a while. I kind of decided I hated it. I re-wrote the ending, basically. _

_Disclaimer: Not mine. Doyle's, Moffat's, BBC in there somewhere for good measure._

Sherlock stepped out into the night and glanced down the street. He saw what he was looking for half a block down. It was the cabbie from earlier, leaning on the bonnet of his black TX4.

"Taxi? Sherlock Holmes, innit?" The man called out softly as Sherlock approached him.

"I didn't order a taxi." He came to a halt at a safe distance.

"Doesn't mean you don't need one."

"You're the cabbie. The one who stopped outside Northumberland Street. It was you, not the passenger." Sherlock scanned the man, looking for clues to his connection to ballet. He was aging; nothing in the way that he stood hinted at a past in dance. Sherlock didn't recognize him from any audiences either.

"No-one ever thinks about the cabbie. It's like you are invisible. Just the back of a head. Proper advantage, really. We can stir up quite the gossip mill just by having a friendly conversation. With enough time, enough talking, we could even sink a company."

"Is this you confessing?" Sherlock asked, eyebrow raised.

The cabbie chuckled. "Tell you what. You can call everyone you know right now and tell them it's me that's been making sure this show is being panned. But I promise you one thing." The cabbie leaned forward. "I will never tell you how I've done it, or why."

Sherlock considered. "The show will be saved though. We'll get some proper previews before opening night and it will undoubtedly be a success. Most people would call that a result."

The cab driver only grinned. "And you won't ever get the answers. What kind of result do you care about?" He opened the door for Sherlock with a little bow.

Sherlock eyed the open door. He shouldn't. But he needed more data. Sherlock despised anything that threatened to tarnish the perfection of a ballet, especially one he had a creative hand in. If he didn't get more information it was entirely possible that someone might try something like this again.

"If I wanted to understand, what would I do?" Sherlock asked.

"Let me take you for a ride. Just a talk. Shop talk. Ballet talk. You like to talk about ballet. Just another consultation, really."

Sherlock didn't take his eyes off the man as he got into the back of the cab. The cab driver shut the door firmly behind him and took his own seat, peeling away from the kerb and off into the night.

They traveled in silence for a few minutes. Sherlock took the time to study the man. He was able to come to some conclusions quickly but not enough to satisfy his curiosity about his motivations behind blackmailing reporters into risking their careers.

"What do I call you?" Sherlock asked casually. "I like to know the names of people who are taking me unknown locations."

"Jeff." The cab driver replied.

"How did you find me?"

"Oh, I recognized you, soon as I saw you chasing my cab. Sherlock Holmes. I was warned about you. Been on your website, too. Brilliant stuff; loved it!"

"Who warned you about me?" Sherlock scanned a list of names in his brain of people who might think he was in need of a pre-warning. Most people found it easiest to pretend he didn't exist, to tell him to piss off.

"Just someone out there's who noticed you." Jeff said distractedly, stopping at an intersection.

"Who?" Sherlock asked again. "Who would notice me?"

Jeff met his eyes in the mirror for a moment. "You're too modest Mr. Holmes."

"I'm really not." Sherlock countered reasonably.

"You've got yourself a fan."

"Tell me more."

"That's all you are going to know in this lifetime." The cabbie said ominously. Sherlock palmed his mobile thoughtfully. One missed call from John. He opened up a new text message. They drove on in silence.

Back at the studio, John stumbled into the night, cane forgotten once again. He looked down both streets, trying to guess which way Sherlock might have gone and how far behind he might be. He pulled out his mobile to check for texts from Sherlock. Nothing.

"I told you, he does that." John turned. Sally Donovan had followed him out. They were obviously breaking between acts. Other dancers were wandering outside for some fresh air and a smoke. Lestrade was among them.

"He bloody left again." Sally told him. "We're wasting our time. He doesn't care about the production"

John ignored her in favour of calling Sherlock. "I'm trying to call him but it's ringing out." He told Lestrade.

"Don't bother. If he isn't here then maybe he's out there figuring this all out. Or maybe he's gone for a bender." Lestrade sounded resigned.

"I'll keep trying him," John said stubbornly.

"Does it matter? Does any of it? You know he's just a lunatic and he'll always let you down. You're wasting our time. All of our time." Sally Donovan gestured at her fellow company members. Some nodded in agreement, some awkwardly shifted their eyes away from John.

"Okay everybody, that's enough. Let's run the second act with changes."

Lestrade began to herd his company back into the studio.

The dancers grumbled a bit at the shortness of the break but headed inside, Sally in the lead. The night air meant they would have to be careful to re-warm their muscles before starting again.

"Why did he do that? Why didn't he stay until he figured it all out for us?" Lestrade had paused beside John and his face was set grimly.

John shrugged. "You know him better than I do."

"I've known him for five years and I'm not sure that I do." Lestrade shook his head.

"Why do you put up with him then?"

Lestrade considered. "Because I'm desperate, that's why." He laughed humorlessly. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think one day, if we're very lucky, he might even be a good one." Lestrade gave him a small smile and disappeared into the studio.

John watched the door for a moment. He still wasn't entirely sure what he was getting himself into. Maybe Lestrade and Donovan were right. No, John thought. Sherlock had definitely put something together before he's left earlier. But what? John's mobile buzzed. He checked and his heart lurched. Sherlock. He thumbed open the message and read its contents before setting off into the night.

Sherlock glanced around as the cab came to a stop. "Where are we?" He asked warily.

"You know every street in London. You know exactly where we are."

"Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Oh, of course. The Ribbon Company works out of here now, don't they?" Sherlock said, putting together the final pieces of the puzzle.

"Right in one." The cab driver confirmed. Sherlock glanced at the dark building. There didn't seem to be anyone else around.

"How did you convince the reporters to follow you into a building that was clearly not their desired destination?"

By way of an answer, Jeff pulled out a gun and pointed it at Sherlock, who only rolled his eyes.

"Oh, dull."

"Don't worry, it gets better." Jeff assured him. "I don't need this with you though. You'll follow me." Jeff pocketed the gun and walked across the pavement and up the stairs into the building. Sherlock followed.

Jeff had already disappeared around a corner but his footsteps betrayed his location. Sherlock hurried after him. They climbed two flights of stairs in silence before Jeff led him down a moonlit hallway to a door plastered with ads; for shoes, costume sales, and yellowing show posters. Jeff threw open the door and hit the lights.

It was a large dance space. The door opened onto a carpeted section and a wall lined with cubbies. A small step up led to the dance floor. Windows covered the wall opposite, mirrors the other two. A long barre ended at an upright piano; a Mason and Riche.

"What do you think?" Jeff asked, gesturing to the room.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in response.

"You're the one who's going to die here." Jeff patted the pocket containing the gun. Sherlock ignored him. "Shall we talk?" Jeff asked, and crossed the floor to lean on the barre.

Sherlock followed Jeff onto the dance floor, first discarding his shoes. He frowned slightly at Jeff's loafers. Outdoor shoes on the dance floor? Definitely no direct experience in ballet.

"So. A bit of an unnecessary risk you're taking, all this. Bribery, I assume, threats. You're risking a hefty fine if the authorities become involved. Might even be jail time." Sherlock halted in the middle of the room, and turned, watching Jeff in the mirrors.

"Nah. You think that's a risk?" Jeff grinned at him. "This is a risk." He pulled a large wad of bills and waved it around.

Sherlock studied the bills, face impassive.

"Oh, I like this bit. Because you don't get it yet. But you're about to. I just have to ask: What are you hiding? What are _you_ willing to risk?" Jeff pulled out a note pad from his other pocket. "Sherlock Holmes. What secrets do I have about you…" He hummed tunelessly and flipped through the notebook.

Sherlock didn't flinch, but continued to study him. Jeff dropped his act and chuckled.

"You're going to love this."

"Love what?" Sherlock shot back.

"Sherlock Holmes. Here in the flesh! That website of yours, your fan told me about it."

"My fan?"

"You are brilliant. You are." Jeff ignored the question. "A proper genius. The Science of Dance, now that is proper thinking. Between you and me sitting here… why can't people think? Don't it make you mad? Why can't people just… think?"

"Oh I see. You're a proper genius too." Sherlock didn't bother hiding his sarcasm.

"Don't look it, do I? Funny little man driving a cab. But you'll know better in a minute. Might even be the last thing you ever know."

Sherlock ignored the repeated threat.

"Okay, so you bribe them. Or, you attempt to. There must be those above bribery."

"Well, that's where they have a choice see. I'd offer them money first. If they won't take that I'm sure I have some little tidbit written somewhere that they don't want getting out."

"Ahh. And everyone has something to hide, of course."

"Of course," Jeff agreed.

"And you claim to know things about each and every one of them. Which, you probably do, if you are as versed in the gossip mill as you claim."

"Course I know about them."

"But they don't know what you know."

"Wouldn't be a game if they knew. You're the one who has to take the risk. Didn't expect that, did you Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock considered. "That's what you did then. You gave them no choice."

"But I'll give you one."

Sherlock shook his head. "No chance. I have nothing to lose here. There still isn't anything stopping me from walking out of here."

"Naah. That's not how people think. I know how it works in their funny little heads. No one would take that risk. Haven't had a single person try to walk away."

"Interesting." Sherlock allowed. "All very interesting. But now it's my turn. There's shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody's pointed it out to you. Traces of where it's happened before, so obviously you live on your own; there's no one to tell you. But there's a photograph of children in the front of your cab. The children's mother has been cut out of the picture. If she'd died, she'd still be there."

Jeff looked back at him stonily.

"The photograph's old but the frame's new. You think of your children but you don't get to see them. Estranged father. She took the kids, but you still love them and it still hurts. Ah, but there's more. Your clothes: recently laundered but everything you're wearing is at least three years old. Keeping up appearances but not planning ahead. And here you are trying to run a ballet company into the ground. But why?"

Jeff looked back at him. His face betrayed nothing.

"Ahh" Sherlock said softly, finally understanding. "Three years ago. Is that when they told you?"

"Told me what?" Jeff asked flatly.

"That you're a dead man walking."

"So are you." Jeff pulled the gun from his pocket and rested it on the barre, not aiming it at Sherlock.

"You don't have long though. Am I right?"

Jeff smiled thinly. "Aneurysm." He tapped the side of his head. "Right in here. Any breath could be my last."

"And because you're dying, you're trying to sink a dance company? Is it because your wife is a dancer? Obvious; you clearly have a lot of second hand knowledge about the industry. No. No… there is something else. This isn't bitterness. Bitterness is a paralytic. Love is a much more vicious motivator. Somehow this is about your children."

This appeared to have struck a nerve. Jeff looked away and sighed. "Ohh. You are good, aren't you?"

"But how?" Sherlock wrinkled his brow, waiting for Jeff to draw the connection.

"When I die, they won't get much from me, my kids. Not a lot of money in driving cabs. Their mum, too."

"She owns The Ribbon company" Sherlock guessed.

"And their biggest competition – "

"Scotland Yard of course. Not a bad motivation. If her company is in trouble getting rid of the competition would certainly help. But would it be enough? And where did you get your information? Despite what you say, you can't have heard everyone's dirty little secrets as a cab driver." Sherlock had moved across the floor absent mindedly and was leaning towards Jeff, one hand on the barre.

"I have a sponsor." Jeff grinned.

"You have a what?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.

"For each production I ruin money goes to my kids. The more damage I do the better off they'll be. You see? It's nicer than you think."

"Who would sponsor you to do that?"

"Who would be a fan of Sherlock Holmes?" Jeff shot back instantly. The two men studied each other. "You're not the only one who likes to influence a production. There are others out there just like you. Except you're just a man and they are so much more than that."

"What do you mean, more than a man? An organization? What?"

"There's a name no-one says, and I'm not going to say it either. Now. Enough chatter."

Jeff tapped the gun against the barre.

"If you think that you'll get away from this scot free you're not the genius I thought. I might just shoot you in the head. Or, you can agree to help me."

Sherlock smiled. "Alright then. No, I won't help you."

Jeff stopped short.

"Are you sure? Not going to beg for your life."

"No. The gun please." Sherlock said pleasantly.

"You don't want to phone a friend?"

"Who says I haven't? The gun."

Jeff's jaw twitched and in one smooth movement he brought the gun up between Sherlock's eyes and pulled the trigger.

John silently urged the cab driver to go faster. He pulled out his phone to double-check their rout.

"Left here, please." The address Sherlock had texted him was unfamiliar, but the maps told him they were mere blocks away. Precious seconds later the cabdriver pulled alongside the pavement.

"Thanks. Keep the change." John stuffed some money into the driver's outstretched hand and bolted up the stairs and into the building.

"Sherlock!" John's voice echoed through the open hallways. He cursed and began opening doors and random, searching. He paused to listen and could hear muffled voices coming from a few floors up. He bolted up the nearest staircase and willed his heart to beat more softly so he could hear over the drumming in his ears. He paused at the first landing; the voices were still above him. He climbed another flight of stairs and burst into a dim hallway. The voices were definitely coming from one of these doors.

Deciding that subtlety might be best, he crept down the corridor. About halfway down John was able to pinpoint the source of the talking. He eased the door open and stepped into the dark room.

There was no one there. It was an empty classroom filled with desks and stacked chairs. A radio had been left on. Frustrated, he smacked the power button and the room was silent. He pulled out his phone to check the address. He definitely was at the right place. John was about to turn a search the remainder of the building when a light caught his eyes. He crossed the room and peered out the window.

An identical building opposite was dark except for the windows directly across from him. He could vaguely see two silhouettes – one was unmistakably Sherlock.

And he had a gun to his head.

Sherlock didn't flinch when the gun clicked. Jeff pulled it away from his forehead and looked at him ruefully.

"I know a prop gun when I see one." Sherlock said dryly.

"None of the others did." Jeff tossed the gun aside.

"Clearly. Well, this has been fun." Sherlock turned to leave.

"Just before you go. I'm curious. Would it have worked on you?"

Sherlock paused on the carpet to pull on his shoes. "Would what have worked?"

"The blackmail. Or the bribery. Or is there nothing in your past you're ashamed of?"

"Sentiment" Sherlock scoffed.

"You're clever. But what's the point of being clever if someone can disprove it?"

Sherlock straightened from tying his laces and met Jeff's gaze.

"Can you disprove it?"

"Care to risk that?"

"What could I possibly do to stop you exposing something from my past if there even was something?" Sherlock's mouth twisted into a grin. "I'm afraid my… shortcomings… are already well documented. I doubt there is anything anyone could expose that isn't common knowledge."

"I bet you get bored, don't you? I know you do. A man like you, so clever. It's known you're an addict. But this… dance… performance. It's what you're really addicted to, isn't it. What if someone could take that away form you? You would do anything… anything at all… to stop being bored."

Sherlock's gaze remained level. "Who is it? Who is this 'fan' of mine? Give me a name."

"No" Jeff refused.

At that moment, John decided to stop in.

"The thing about blackmail. The tricky thing about it, is that it goes both ways." Jeff and Sherlock spun to face the door.

John had been relieved when he realized the gun was a fake. He snuck into the building and had listened to enough of the conversation to decide a dramatic entrance was in order.

"John. At last." Sherlock beamed at him. "So glad you've joined us."

"It was nice of you to invite me." John grinned back.

"Who's this now?" Jeff stared at John, confused.

"Oh, come now, surely your employer has told you that the Great John Watson has returned to London after his stint in Russia?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"John… Watson?" Jeff said faintly.

"You may not have heard of me, but I think I know exactly who you are." John said grimly. He pulled his contact book from his pocket and flipped through the pages. "Jeffery Patterson, married to Vera Derzhavin." He snapped the book shut and studied Jeff. "Vera and I met just before Sidorov picked me up. She was pregnant with her first son. I had heard she had gotten a divorce… never did meet her husband."

Jeff paled. Sherlock's smile widened.

"Do you know… I think I might give her a call right now. I hadn't heard that she started a dance company of her own. Good for her. Although, I'm confused: She was never the type to shy away from competition. Reveled in it, more like. Bet she'd be interested to know what you've been up to since the divorce."

"No." Jeff spat. "No. This isn't… how this is supposed to go."

"You said it yourself, Jeff. Everyone has something to hide." Sherlock leaned casually on the barre

"Even more interesting to know what your kids would think. They're just at that age… developing a moral compass and all. Wonder what they would think of what their Dad has gotten into."

Jeff's worked his jaw. He seemed to be considering.

"You know, my Dad was a prick." John said conversationally. "They say never speak ill of the dead, but that isn't quite how it works, is it? Being dead doesn't make you less of a bastard. Your legacy only lives on in how others remember you. And you know how I remember my dad? As a lying, cheating piece of scum who I'm nearly ashamed to be related to."

There was silence. Sherlock seemed to be dissecting John once more. John met his gaze evenly.

"What do you want." Jeff finally spoke. "I'll do it. Just.. .what?"

"A name." Sherlock said immediately.

"We want you to call those reviewers and have them pull those stories. Immediately. They can blame hackers, illness, it doesn't matter. We want those stories off the blogs before they make it to the press." John said with a glare in Sherlock's direction. Sherlock only raised an eyebrow at John.

"And… you know. A name. while you're at it." John added.

Jeff studied them. "You're in for it now, eh? You'll have to know that. Alright. I'll give you a name. But you didn't hear it from me."

"…well?" Sherlock asked. Jeff seemed to be steeling himself.

"Moriarty." He hissed finally. With that he headed for the door. John and Sherlock made no move to stop him.

"Well then. That was.. that was…" Sherlock scratched his head.

"Dramatic?" John supplied. He couldn't help it. He began to chuckle. Sherlock joined in and they were soon roaring with laughter.

"Who is Moriarty, anyway?" John finally managed, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

"I have no idea. Not in that funny little book of yours?" Sherlock asked.

"Nahh… it's not really up to date anymore. Just a stroke of luck that I caught Vera's name on one of the posters." John admitted.

"We should get back to the rehearsal hall. Lestrade'll want to know what we've found out."

"Yeah, you'll want to go back straight away. I think Sally's nearly convinced him to re add some of those pirouettes."

Sherlock shuddered and hopped off the dance floor, jamming his feet back into his shoes. "Think Jeff is still downstairs? Not a great neighbourhood to grab a cab in."

John shook his head. "I really think I'd rather walk, if it's all the same to you."

" You did get injured though." Sherlock asked mildly as they found their way out of the school.

"Sorry?"

"With Sidorov. You have an actual wound."

"Oh yeah, Shoulder. Torn rotator cuff."

"Shoulder! I thought so."

"No you didn't."

"The left one."

"Lucky guess."

"I never guess" Sherlock protested.

"Yeah you do." John chuckled. They grinned at each other and John felt happy. Perhaps… it was no danseur career. But it just might do.

Sherlock was fidgeting. John tried to ignore him to focus on the program.

They were at the opening of the ballet. Lestrade had set aside comps for them and John had insisted on using them.

"But I never go to openings." Sherlock protested. "Too much… sentimentality going around."

"Less so than at closings."

"Well I never go to those either." Sherlock retorted.

"Well I like opening nights. Besides… we're both credited as consultants. It won't look good if we don't go. We should show our support."

Sherlock had agreed begrudgingly after John threatened to stop making extra tea in the mornings.

"They are five minutes behind. Something has gone wrong." Sherlock muttered absentmindedly as he shredded his playbill.

"Don't be ridiculous. FOH manager hasn't surrendered the house yet."

"Obviously. Because something has gone wrong."

John sighed and turned his attention to his flatmate. "See anyone you recognize here?" He asked, hoping to distract Sherlock from creating program confetti for the front of house staff to clean up later.

"Miranda Nichols from the Dailey Mail. Probably only here to see if anyone messes up; that's all they seem to care about. Her opinion doesn't mean much on the inside but they have a loyal conservative following who's opinions might be influenced. Jonathan Biggs is here – he freelances for entertainment columns in a number of papers – must be working for a employer that he likes, trying for a permanent position."

"Why would you say that?" John asked.

"Look at his suit – that's his best one. He's pressed his shirt too, doesn't bother with that usually. Clearly trying to impress someone. Hattie Prinket is there too, in the front row. Her girlfriend is cheating on her with their hairdresser again. She'll give a good review out of guilt, probably, because I don't think she's going to be paying much attention. Norah Bortan is planning on leaving at intermission to meet her new boyfriend. Dull. And there is someone missing from the front row."

John raised himself up a bit in his seat to see over people's heads; he and Sherlock were about halfway back.

"Who is missing?" John asked, puzzled.

"Someone important." Sherlock mused. "They are holding the house for them.

A small commotion at a side door caught John's attention.

"Ahh… Sherlock.. that's…"

"Who is that?" Sherlock asked with a frown. "I don't recognize him. He isn't one of their main donors."

"Sherlock… That's Elton John." John hissed. The glasses gave it away. Sir Elton John and his date were ushered to their seats by a beaming Lestrade.

"Who?" Sherlock asked, puzzled.

John stared. "Elton John, Sherlock. He's a huge music star. The music in this ballet is all his how could you not know that?"

John stopped talking as the recorded intro began to play, reminding them to turn off all cell phones and watch alarms. The lights dimmed at the orchestra began.

John was on the edge of his seat. He hopped none of the dancers knew who held the seat of honor in the front row. None of the company needed more nerves on this opening night.

Rehearsals had gone well and they were more than ready for this. They were settling nicely into their rolls. Eventually John forgot to be nervous and found himself enjoying the ballet. Sherlock was immobile beside him, and seemed to be spending a lot of the show with his eyes shut tightly.

Intermission passed in a blur. Sir Elton John had clearly been snuck into a private lobby – Lestrade was nowhere to be seen either. John grabbed a few glasses of champagne for himself and Sherlock and challenged his flatmate to tell him about the other attendees.

The second act went as smoothly as the first. Sherlock was keen to flee afterwards but John insisted on staying for the reception.

"It won't hurt, Sherlock. Shake a few hands, tell them they were wonderful. They'll thank you for it."

"Anderson was late on three lighting cues and Ivan stumbled in the second act."

"Yeah… don't tell them that. If you have notes pass them to Lestrade later, just, tell them they were great."

The lobby had been decorated beautifully. It appeared that their celebrity had ducked out after the show, but Lestrade eagerly assured everyone he had loved it.

"I offered to set aside tickets for him to the rest of the season and he thought he might take me up on it! Having a celebrity endorsement is huge." Lestrade beamed. John grinned with him. He had called a mutual acquaintance and he said he would mention it the singer. John was thrilled it had worked.

Sally gave him a quick hug when she came out, dressed in a slinky black dress. She was quickly monopolized by a few donors who were eager to tell her what a star she was becoming.

Sherlock stayed beside John and smiled painfully at everyone. Anderson kept pointedly away from the pair of them, which suited John fine. They were kept busy chatting with members of the company and Sherlock begrudgingly introduced John to a few other of his contacts.

John was just thinking it might be acceptable for them to slip away when he noticed a man standing in the corner watching them. He recognized him instantly.

"Sherlock, that's him" he hissed, grabbing his tall flatmate by the elbow and gesturing subtly across the room. Sherlock immediately glanced over and his eyes narrowed.

"Is that.." John said tentatively. "Could it be Moriarty?"

"No." Sherlock hissed. "I know exactly who that is." He strode across the room towards him, John on his tail.

"What are you doing here?" He spat when they were within earshot.

"As ever, I am concerned about you."

"Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'"

"Always so aggressive" The man chided. "Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no!" Sherlock retorted.

"We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is childish. You know how it always upset Mummy."

John, watching the exchange apprehensively, did a double take.

"I upset her? Me?" Sherlock was saying. "It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft."

"No, no. Wait. Mummy? Who's Mummy?" John asked, thoroughly confused.

"Mother, our Mother. This is my brother Mycroft" Sherlock said dismissively. "Putting on weight again?" Sherlock returned to goading his sibling.

"Losing it in fact" Mycroft glowered back at Sherlock.

"He's your brother?" John was still a few steps behind.

"Of course he's my brother." Sherlock scoffed.

"So he's not…" John trailed off.

"Not what?"

"I don't know some sort of criminal mastermind?" John said helplessly.

Both brothers looked at John. Mycroft raised an eyebrow and John shrugged in embarrassment.

"Close enough." Sherlock bared his teeth.

"For goodness sake. I occupy a minor position in the British Ministry of Arts and Culture." Mycroft protested.

"He _is_ the British Ministry of Arts and Culture, when he isn't too busy being the London Arts council or the acting chair of the American Dance council on a freelance basis." Mycroft sighed and Sherlock turned away.

"Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to hand out too many arts grants to unimaginative Shakespeare adaptations before I get home. You know what it does to the traffic." Sherlock called over his shoulder.

John started to follow but then turned back to Mycroft. "So when you say you're concerned about him, you actually are concerned?"

"Yes of course."

"I mean, it actually is a childish feud?"

Mycroft sighed again. "He has always been so resentful. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

"Yes…no. God, no!" John shook his head. "I'd better um…" The woman who was likely not named Anthea appeared at Mycroft's elbow, typing away on her mobile again.

"Hello again." John said to her.

She looked up and smiled brightly at him. "Hello." She didn't appear to recognize him.

"Yes. We.. uh… we met earlier this week." John supplied.

Not-Anthea looked him up and down as though trying to place him. "Oh."

"Okay, good night" John spun on his heel and stalked after Sherlock, pride sufficiently dented.

"Good night, Doctor Watson!" Mycroft called after him.

John caught up with Sherlock.

"Hungry?" Sherlock asked.

"Starving." John admitted. He hadn't managed to grab anything the food trays that were going around.

"End of Baker Street, there's a good Chinese stays open until two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle. I can predict the fortune cookies."

"No you can't" John scoffed.

Sherlock grinned at him and ducked out of the theatre into the night.

John followed, his spirits light, and a spring in his step.

_A/N: Aww thanks for reading, guys! That's it that's all, for now._


End file.
